Zlotnikov's novel Unclean Blood read in full. Arwendale. Unclean Blood

The change in the ruler of the Human Empire happened suddenly. Carlith II, the predecessor of Emperor Eontheus, was still in his prime when an unknown fever brought him to the grave within a few days. What happened to the mightiest of kings? Did the young, but already very clever and ambitious Viscount Egmonter have anything to do with this? And aren’t Yannem, the king of the Mountain Kingdom, and his brother Bryce, who knows something too much about dark magic, involved in this intrigue...

Sometimes the fate of great empires and their rulers is decided on the very outskirts of these empires.

The work was published in 2018 by Eksmo Publishing House. The book is part of the Arwendale series. On our website you can download the book "Arwendale. Unclean Blood" in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. Here, before reading, you can also turn to reviews from readers who are already familiar with the book and find out their opinion. In our partner's online store you can buy and read the book in paper form.

Roman Zlotnikov, Yulia Ostapenko

Arwendale. Unclean Blood

King Lothar, Lord of Mithril, should not have died. It was an extremely irresponsible, extremely reckless act on his part.

That day the yard went out for the last hunt on the eve of Winter Lent. These were unusually fine days at the end of autumn, the ground was not yet covered with ice, although in the mornings it was covered with frost, and Lake Mortag was already covered with a transparent crust near the shores. A bad time for hunting if you are looking for easy entertainment, but an excellent time if the hunter wants to challenge his prey. And King Lothar was known as just such a hunter, so last days hunting season was his favorite time. And at times the most hated thing for the royal court, which he mercilessly dragged along rocky gorges and mountain paths, getting deeper each time, because with the approach of winter, the prey went into the mountains, to its lair. And this is precisely what inflamed the king’s excitement. It was on such a hunt that he could fully show his subjects how much strength he still had.

Because only a truly strong warrior and magician would risk hunting trolls deep in the mountains on the eve of winter.

“Reckless,” thought Bryce, looking at the cloud of steam escaping from his lips as he breathed. He didn’t notice this in the city - there were too many people, high walls protected from the chilly wind from the southern plain, and mountain range- from North. Eldamar, the capital of the kingdom of Mithril, lies in the valley, reliably sheltered on all sides from both weather and enemies, so that the real cold came there later. But here, high in the mountains, on the edge of a wide chasm diving into the thickness of the rocks, the wind freely fell from the peaks and chilled to the bones. The courtiers shivered, coughed, and muffled a muffled grumble, but, of course, no one dared to make a sound when Lothar, after a lively dialogue with the rangers, ordered them to move into a crevice that led even further into the mountains - further, higher and deeper. This chasm connected the Mithril plateau with the Rock Tooth. People never settled here, but trolls often wandered here: one of their settlements lay deep in the rocks. This barren rocky land belonged to them, not to the people - the people were impostors here and they knew it. Lothar loved to hunt in places where the prey did not need to be teased and lured out for a long time, because it wandered freely and drew strength from the mountains. Here it is easy to track down the troll and much more difficult to defeat him.

Bryce heard Yannam mutter something next to him - as expected, without a trace of respect for his father's games. Bryce caught his brother's displeased glance and arched an eyebrow mockingly. Yes, he himself had just mentally called their crowned father reckless. But not at all as a reproach. Rather, with admiration. King Lothar was seventy-two years old, he was thin, wiry, his long hair and beard had turned gray many years ago, but he still had plenty of strength and enthusiasm. This did not even need proof: the remarkable power of the old king was clearly evidenced by the fierce determination with which he conducted state affairs, without yielding an inch of power to anyone - not the Council, not the priests, not even his heirs. Just last week he had a courtier flogged and driven naked through the city for daring to criticize the king's policy towards the fair races too loudly. Lothar watched the execution in person, standing on the fortress wall of the royal castle of Bergmar, and laughed merrily, like a boy at a fair performance. No, he had no intention of giving up at all. Perhaps this is partly what caused the dissatisfaction of Jannem, his eldest son.

But the youngest son, Bryce, was involuntarily delighted by his father’s fearless prowess. And he also really loved watching his father do magic.

The king had a sword and a spear with him, but during the hunt he used them only at the very end to finish off the prey. He always attacked only with magic. It was raw, straightforward magic: uprooting a thick tree and throwing it at the troll’s feet, pushing a giant piece of rock overhanging a cliff onto its head, splitting the soil right under the troll’s feet. King Lothar conjured the same way he hunted and ruled, the same way he destroyed his enemies: with furious pressure, without any hesitation. And without considering any risk for himself or for the people he led. On such hunts, someone invariably died, but more often not in the toothed jaws and clawed paws of enraged trolls, but from the magic used by the king, which was too destructive and therefore not very accurate. This season alone, three people died while hunting, crushed by a landslide that Lothar caused to drown a particularly large troll carcass. Lothar was delighted with that hunt; the head of his victim was still grinning bloodthirstyly from its place of honor in the Trophy Greenhouse.

But today, it seems, an even more impressive trophy awaited King Lothar. Unique.

“This is a shaman, your majesty,” the huntsmen said after consulting among themselves.

The news caused a murmur in the ranks of the courtiers, another sour grimace on Yannem’s face, and forced Bryce to sharply straighten up in the saddle.

Shaman! A rare catch indeed. They almost never move away from their settlements. Bryce could not remember a single hunt when they managed not only to kill, but even to meet a shaman. Lothar also appreciated the message: his dark, completely unfaded eyes sparkled in anticipation.

“The Bright Gods are presenting me with a wonderful gift on the eve of Lent,” the hoarse but still sonorous voice of the old king echoed through the gorge, echoing in the mountains. - Great job, Herbert. You'll go see the treasurer when we return to the capital.

“Your Majesty,” the senior huntsman bowed obsequiously.

“That’s the point, he’s not just a troll,” Lothar rudely interrupted his son, and his words carried such a cold air that Bryce involuntarily shuddered, even though his father was not addressing him. “And, thank the gods, I have enough mana to rejoice at this and not tuck my tail between my legs.” And you, Yannam, can hide behind Bryce. Everyone will understand you.

It was tough. Lothar rarely humiliated his eldest son in front of strangers - although, Bryce knew, he did it all the time when they were alone. The blood drained from Yannem's face, he moved his lips, but prudence kept him from answering. Besides, Lothar is partly right. Yannem is an unimportant hunter. This is not his fault, but the fact remains. Bryce, the youngest of the princes of Mithril, killed two trolls with his own hands during this hunting season alone and, together with his father, participated in the drive of three more. Yannem, the king's eldest son, never killed a single troll in his entire life. And he doesn’t have the slightest chance against a shaman.

Because Yannem, Prince of Mithril, from birth was absolutely, completely devoid of the ability to magic.

- Don't worry, Ian. “I’ll cover you if anything happens,” Bryce encouraged him and smiled.

He said this quite quietly, and there was no mockery in his smile at all - at least, it seemed so to Bryce himself. But several heads turned towards them, and Yannem’s pallor became downright deathly. He sharply pulled the reins of his horse and pointedly rode away from his brother, but not away from the gorge, but closer to it. The courtiers began to whisper again, but then attention switched to Lothar, who directed his horse straight into the gorge, motioning for the rangers to give way to him. The crevasse, cutting right through the rock, went up almost vertically. Steel horseshoes scraped against boulders, small stones fell down as the king's horse struggled up the steep slope. He was well trained for this, and Lothar was backing him up with magic, but it still took Bryce's breath away as he watched his father's dark figure, his white hair flowing, climb up the cliff along a path that no one else could have traversed. ...

Roman Zlotnikov, Yulia Ostapenko

Arwendale. Unclean Blood

King Lothar, Lord of Mithril, should not have died. It was an extremely irresponsible, extremely reckless act on his part.

That day the yard went out for the last hunt on the eve of Winter Lent. These were unusually fine days at the end of autumn, the ground was not yet covered with ice, although in the mornings it was covered with frost, and Lake Mortag was already covered with a transparent crust near the shores. A bad time for hunting if you are looking for easy entertainment, but an excellent time if the hunter wants to challenge his prey. And King Lothar was known as just such a hunter, so the last days of the hunting season were his favorite time. And the most hated time for the royal court, which he mercilessly dragged along rocky gorges and mountain paths, getting deeper each time, because with the approach of winter, the prey went into the mountains, to its lair. And this is precisely what inflamed the king’s excitement. It was on such a hunt that he could fully show his subjects how much strength he still had.

Because only a truly strong warrior and magician would risk hunting trolls deep in the mountains on the eve of winter.

“Reckless,” thought Bryce, looking at the cloud of steam escaping from his lips as he breathed. He didn’t notice this in the city - there are too many people there, high walls protect from the chilly wind from the southern plain, and the mountain range from the north. Eldamar, the capital of the kingdom of Mithril, lies in the valley, reliably sheltered on all sides from both weather and enemies, so that the real cold came there later. But here, high in the mountains, on the edge of a wide chasm diving into the thickness of the rocks, the wind freely fell from the peaks and chilled to the bones. The courtiers shivered, coughed, and muffled a muffled grumbling, but, of course, no one dared to make a sound when Lothar, after a lively dialogue with the rangers, ordered them to move into a crevice that led even further into the mountains - further, higher and deeper. This chasm connected the Mithril plateau with the Rock Tooth. People never settled here, but trolls often wandered here: one of their settlements lay deep in the rocks. This barren rocky land belonged to them, not to the people - the people were impostors here and they knew it. Lothar loved to hunt in places where the prey did not need to be teased and lured out for a long time, because it wandered freely and drew strength from the mountains. Here it is easy to track down the troll and much more difficult to defeat him.

Bryce heard Yannam mutter something next to him - as one might expect, without a trace of respect for his father's games. Bryce caught his brother's displeased glance and arched his eyebrow mockingly. Yes, he himself had just mentally called their crowned father reckless. But not at all as a reproach. Rather, with admiration. King Lothar was seventy-two years old, he was thin, wiry, his long hair and beard had turned gray many years ago, but he still had plenty of strength and enthusiasm. This did not even need proof: the remarkable power of the old king was clearly evidenced by the fierce determination with which he conducted state affairs, without yielding even an inch of power to anyone - not the Council, not the priests, not even his heirs. Just last week he had a courtier flogged and driven naked through the city for daring to criticize the king's policy towards the fair races too loudly. Lothar watched the execution in person, standing on the fortress wall of the royal castle of Bergmar, and laughed merrily, like a boy at a fair performance. No, he had no intention of giving up at all. Perhaps this is partly what caused the dissatisfaction of Jannem, his eldest son.

But the youngest son, Bryce, was involuntarily delighted by his father’s fearless prowess. And he also really loved watching his father do magic.

But today, it seems, an even more impressive trophy awaited King Lothar. Unique.

This is a shaman, Your Majesty,” the rangers said after consulting among themselves.

The news caused a murmur in the ranks of the courtiers, another sour grimace on Yannem’s face, and forced Bryce to sharply straighten up in the saddle.

The Light Gods are presenting me with a wonderful gift on the eve of Lent,” the hoarse, but still sonorous voice of the old king echoed through the gorge, echoing in the mountains. - Great job, Herbert. You'll go see the treasurer when we return to the capital.

Your Majesty,” the senior huntsman bowed obsequiously.

That’s the point, he’s not just a troll,” Lothar rudely interrupted his son, and his words carried such a coldness that Bryce involuntarily shuddered, even though his father was not addressing him. - And, thank the gods, I have enough mana to rejoice at this and not tuck my tail between my legs. And you, Yannam, can hide behind Bryce. Everyone will understand you.

It was tough. Lothar rarely humiliated his eldest son in the presence of strangers - although, Bryce knew, he did it all the time when they were alone. The blood drained from Yannem's face, he moved his lips, but prudence kept him from answering. Besides, Lothar is partly right. Yannem is an unimportant hunter. This is not his fault, but the fact remains. Bryce, the youngest of the princes of Mithril, killed two trolls with his own hands during this hunting season alone and, together with his father, participated in the drive of three more. Yannem, the king's eldest son, never killed a single troll in his entire life. And he doesn’t have the slightest chance against a shaman.

Because Yannem, Prince of Mithril, from birth was absolutely, completely devoid of the ability to magic.

Don't worry, Ian. “I’ll cover you if anything happens,” Bryce encouraged him and smiled.

He said this quite quietly, and there was no mockery in his smile at all - at least, it seemed so to Bryce himself. But several heads turned towards them, and Yannem’s pallor became downright deathly. He sharply pulled the horse's reins and defiantly rode away from his brother, but not away from the gorge, but closer to it. The courtiers began to whisper again, but then attention switched to Lothar, who directed his horse straight into the gorge, motioning for the rangers to give way to him. The crevasse, cutting right through the rock, went up almost vertically. Steel horseshoes scraped against boulders, small stones fell down as the king's horse struggled up the steep slope. He was well trained for this, and Lothar was backing him up with magic, but it still took Bryce's breath away as he watched his father's dark figure, his white hair flowing, climb up the cliff along a path that no one else could have traversed. ...

Well, except maybe Bryce himself. He's good at magic too. Very good.

And yet, it was not he, but Yannem who tried to save their father in those brief moments when there was still a chance to save him.

Everything happened quickly. Terrifyingly fast. Bryce was still very young and did not know that this is how the most important events in the lives of people and kingdoms happen - with lightning speed, when not the strongest, but the fastest, win. And, of course, those on whose side the circumstances - and the power of the gods. Sometimes Light, sometimes Dark. And you never know in advance which ones will win this time.

The shaman suddenly appeared from the crevice, as if he was deliberately waiting in ambush. The trolls were distinguished by a fair amount of stupidity, but the lack of ingenuity was fully compensated by their gigantic growth and monstrous strength. But the shaman turned out to be smaller, more agile, and more cunning than those giants with whom the hunters usually dealt. He waited until King Lothar climbed onto a small ledge at the top of the chasm, where it finally plunged deep into the mountain and was lost in the darkness. Even as a small individual, the shaman was a good five feet taller than the king sitting on horseback and at first decided not to waste his mana, so he simply hit the rider with a huge fist. The invisible protective barrier around the king easily repelled the blow. Bryce rushed forward to support his father's barrier, weakened by this first attack. But Lothar felt his youngest son’s magic reaching out to him, and without turning around, he raised his palm in warning.

The change in the ruler of the Human Empire happened suddenly. Carlitus II, the predecessor of Emperor Eontheus, was still in his prime when an unknown fever brought him to the grave within a few days. What happened to the mightiest of kings? Did the young, but already very clever and ambitious Viscount Egmonter have anything to do with this? And aren’t Yannem, the king of the Mountain Kingdom, and his brother Bryce, who knows too much about dark magic, involved in this intrigue... Sometimes the fate of great empires and their rulers is decided on the very outskirts of these empires.

A series: Arwendale

* * *

The given introductory fragment of the book Arwendale. Unclean blood. Book 1 (Yu. V. Ostapenko, 2018) provided by our book partner - the company liters.

Like Yannam, Bryce never attended a meeting of the royal council during his father's lifetime. It is difficult to say what exactly Lothar was thinking when, even after the death of his eldest sons, he stubbornly removed the remaining two from state affairs. Perhaps he really expected to live and rule, if not forever, then for many more years. And, it seems, his successor in the person of Jannem decided to follow approximately the same calculation. He was not married, did not have time to have children, even illegitimate ones (at least as far as Bryce knew), and now his younger brother became his only heir.

And yet, Yannem definitely decided to follow in the footsteps of their deceased parent. In everything he can. He began by not even thinking about offering Bryce a seat on the Council. The fact that there was no place as such did not matter - Clyde and Raynar were constantly present at the meetings, standing behind their father's throne chair, although they did not formally hold any positions at court. But still they listened, remembered, learned, and sometimes they were even given the floor. Yannam decided not to show Bryce even this small favor. Perhaps he was angry that Bryce had witnessed his disgrace at the damned coronation. Yes, he killed the tramp who broke through, but only when he had already managed to publicly insult the king. Not that many people saw it, but the gossip still leaked out and spread throughout the capital. In general, the people had the worst impression both of the anointing of the newly-crowned monarch to the throne and of the monarch himself. The worst thing.

All this was regularly reported to Bryce by Viscount Egmonter, who, for lack of anything better, became his eyes and ears in the Council.

“Jannem was crowned, but no one really accepted him,” Egmonter reported with such an enthusiastic look, as if the hostility of the Mithrillians towards the new king was his personal merit. “Now it’s enough to throw a stone into the water to make circles start.” Stay alert, my prince, we need to wait for the right moment.

Bryce listened to him, silently frowning. He did not take back his words that he did not intend to go against his brother. And so it was. But still, he, like many others - both at the royal court and behind the palace walls - did not like what was happening. Yannem took on too much and turned too sharp right away. People died in the stampede during the coronation. Not so much as to cause a riot in the city, but in the taverns this coronation was called nothing less than “bloody.” Such an accession to the throne did not bode well for the new monarch. The priests in the temples called on the people of Mithril to pray for the health and prosperous reign of the new ruler Mithril, and meanwhile people said that it was still a big question whether such a king was pleasing to the gods. After all, the royal crown placed on his head never shone with divine light. And this means something...

Therefore, Bryce, for all his reluctance to open confrontation, could not help but feel the tension growing in the air and could not help but desire its release. Something must happen, and very soon - something that will either allow Yannem to become a real king, not by title, but in essence and purpose, or will overthrow him completely. And then... well, then we’ll see.

Bryce made it clear to Egmonter that he intended to wait for a sign from above, but he himself would not lift a finger to organize such a sign. Egmonter sighed sadly. Yannem, diligently avoiding his brother in the palace corridors, worked diligently, delving into the affairs of the state, which was now entrusted to his care. Two weeks passed like this.

And then the gods, Light or Dark, showed the sign that everyone was waiting for.

A hacked, bleeding messenger with his scalp half torn off came galloping from the west. He fell off his horse suspension bridge Bergmar Castle, but before he gave up the ghost, he managed to wheeze, clinging to the guard who ran up to him:

– Orcs... at the pass... beyond Mortag...

The Western Orc horde has rarely bothered Mithril with raids in recent centuries. Danger had to be expected from the south and southwest, where the steppe plain stretched, constantly subject to raids by nomadic tribes. Such raids were easily dealt with by the border outposts that Mithril's people built along the entire line of contact with the steppe. Over hundreds of years, these outposts grew, multiplied and became stronger. And now from the southern steppe, owned by the orcs, and from the adjacent lands of the Empire, the people of Mithril were protected by a reliable line of ditches, embankments and letzins, capable of stopping almost any enemy on the approach.

The situation was different with the western direction. There lay the lands of the horde, separated from Mithril by a pass called the Sorrowful. About five hundred years ago, a great battle took place there, ending the largest and bloodiest orc raid in the history of Mithril. The Western orcs led a sedentary lifestyle and rarely went on raids, but in that terrible summer they decided to push people back from the Mithril ridge, taking possession of this land. No one knew why they needed this - certainly not for the sake of the depleted dwarven mines and hardly for the sake of human cities and towns, which the orcs would have razed to the ground anyway. Mithril counted, in addition to the capital, two dozen cities, clustered around the mountain range, and from these cities villages and farmsteads flowed down into the valley. There, peasants worked on pastures and rare plots of fertile land, feeding cities and castles, which, in turn, supplied them with craft goods and, most importantly, protected them from external enemies. The Western orcs had nothing to take here - except perhaps slaves, whom they, like their fellow tribesmen from the land of Glykhnyg, raised and fattened for slaughter. In a word, history has not preserved the reasons for that raid, but the horror and chaos that it sowed are reflected in the name of Sorrowful Pass. No one settled there even now, because there was too great a chance, while walking along the mountain paths, to inadvertently hear the crunch of old bones underfoot.

And now, if you believe the messenger who died in agony - and there was no reason not to believe him - the Western orcs again decided to cross the pass. Now, at the beginning of winter. And just like five hundred years ago, no one could understand why they needed this, but everyone was aware of how terrible this threat was.

Young King Yannem, however, was determined to pass the test with flying colors.

Scouts were immediately sent, who brought disappointing news: orcs actually appeared at the pass and burned to the ground one of the few settlements located in this part of Mithril. Three outposts guarding the western border were also destroyed, and the guards serving there disappeared without a trace. And only a few days later, a reconnaissance group sent to Sorrowful Pass was able to find traces of an orc camp: with ashes left over from a fire and parts of gnawed human bodies scattered around.

The orcs actually visited here, destroyed the outposts, ravaged the village and left, as if it was just a little pleasure trip for them.

All this was important. More important than any attempts to break through the southwestern orcs from the steppe, which happened almost every year. Bryce understood this. But he doubted whether Yannem understood this. Therefore, he decided to disobey his brother for the first time since the day he became king.

And he showed up uninvited to the Council meeting.

When Bryce entered, the Council had already begun. Yannem was just listening to the report of Lord Dalgos, retelling the latest reports from the reconnaissance group. Upon entering, Bryce raised his palm as he walked, silently urging the Lord Interrogator not to interrupt the report, and stopped a few steps short of the table. Lord Dalgos, however, still fell silent and looked questioningly at the king, who sat in the throne chair straight as a string, without leaning against the back, and listened to the report with a completely inscrutable face, which made Bryce admire his brother’s self-control. I wonder, Bryce thought, if he's nervous? Take away the darkness, just like that. If I were him, I would go crazy."

“Your Highness,” Lord Dalgos said separately. “I didn’t know that today you would honor the Council with your presence.”

And another questioning glance towards Yannem. And he trained the Lord Interrogator well in just two weeks, since he asks for his approval for every sneeze. Or is it just that Yannem did not discuss Bryce’s presence with Dalgos? Who should ask whose approval, really?

“I didn’t know that myself until the last minute,” Bryce answered, trying to keep his voice casual. – The Light Gods see that Lord Egmonter tried to dissuade me in every possible way. “It was a blatant lie, and Bryce, not without pleasure, saw how Viscount Egmonter twisted under it. “But I couldn’t help myself, knowing what exactly you would discuss today.”

Bryce calmly crossed his arms and answered, looking not at the Lord Treasurer, but at his brother:

– Judging by the rumors that reach me, an extra head for the Council now certainly won’t hurt. For I am not the only one here who cannot boast of significant experience in strategic planning.

The lunge hit the target. Yannem turned pale - he was prone to this; the color draining from his face was often the only external sign by which one could judge his true feelings. There was a tense silence, during which Yannem apparently considered his next move. Bryce didn’t have time to figure out what would happen if the king just called the guards and threw him out like a beggar. Without turning his head and keeping his eyes on Bryce, Yannem said:

“Lord Guardian, order another chair to be placed at the table.”

Everyone exhaled. If a storm is coming, then at least for this moment she passed. Bryce pulled up the chair brought for him and moved closer to the table - albeit at the far end, but this is a big step forward compared to the fact that until now he was not even allowed on the threshold. And only then did he notice that, besides him and the king, there were not six people at the Council table today, but seven.

“Your Majesty,” said Lord Ursus, the royal marshal, rising from his chair, “now that we have listened to the report of the Lord Inquiry, allow me to express my own thoughts.”

“Speak,” Yannem nodded.

The Royal Marshal was not a permanent member of the Council and did not bear the corresponding title giving him special privileges. Several years ago, when Yannem began to take a serious interest in politics and the structure of his father’s court, he explained to Bryce that this was not without reason. Once upon a time, the Royal Marshals were members of the Council along with the other Lords Advisors. But one of their ancestors, Lothar’s great-great-grandfather, stopped this tradition, deciding that, being the first commander, the marshal already had too much power. The Lords Advisors, being under the king's hand, made laws and made decisions, but the marshal had only to implement these decisions. “If you give the marshal a reason to think that he is capable of making his own judgments, and not of enforcing the royal will, then one day he may realize that the army submissive to him is a huge force,” Yannem explained to Bryce, who listened attentively. “Therefore, it is better for everyone if the marshal thinks less with his own head and trusts the king more.” From time immemorial, only the most devoted people, who have proven their loyalty with blood many times, have been appointed to this post. Even the post of Lord Protector, who was in charge of the king's personal security, was not considered so important and trusted.

“But how can you put a person at the head of an army who is not able to think for himself? – Bryce was surprised when they talked about it. “How will he be able to build a strategy and defeat his enemies?” “It’s not difficult,” Yannem chuckled. – Remember: this tradition was introduced two hundred years after the Tribulation War. Since then, the most dangerous thing we have faced are small raids by the southwestern horde against well-fortified outposts. There, you don’t need a lot of intelligence to win.”

I wonder, Bryce thought, looking at Yannem’s impenetrable face, do you remember that conversation we had? Surely you remember. You remember everything and think quickly. Your head cooks as it should, you can’t take that away. So what kind of demon is this pompous fool hanging around here? Because Lord Ursus, a corpulent, stocky old man whose depraved tastes were rumored throughout the capital, is the last person you should ask for advice on such matters. Yes, he went against the orcs with King Lothar, but everyone knows that he did not lead the army into battle. Orders always came from Lothar, and he personally led the heavy cavalry in battle. King-mage, king-warrior, king-legislator, king-commander. It's not easy to be in his place and always try to compare with him, isn't it, Ian?

“I must say,” Lord Ursus spoke in a drunken, cheeky voice, apparently not yet fully realizing that he was at the Council, and not in the brothel where he spent that night, “that, despite the alarming news, I consider all this panic to be premature.” Yes, and not very well founded.

– Not very reasonable? – asked Lord Melegil. – A village completely cut out and traces of a cannibal orgy – isn’t that enough for you?

“That’s the orcish way,” the marshal grinned. “That’s their nature.” And yes, from time to time they make such forays. And I would share your concern, my lords, if this were an attack like the one that happened five years ago at Helmud Bridge. Then a horde of two thousand heads passed through, we lost half a dozen villages, hundreds of people were devoured by these creatures or driven into slavery. Some of you remember that war. It's a pity that not all. “He cast a condescending glance at Yannem, who instantly responded:

“Are you hinting at me, Lord Marshal?”

He stopped short. In fact, it was during that war that Lothar took the two eldest, then still living, sons, leaving seventeen-year-old Yannem and fifteen-year-old Bryce at home. It was hardly worth reminding the young king of that painful and shameful time for him. Besides, five years is quite a long time. Since then, too much has changed, including the position of the one who, during the last war, was an outcast in his own family, and now single-handedly ruled the entire kingdom.

But King Lothar skillfully selected his companions: Lord Ursus really lacked the ingenuity for such conclusions. So he just grinned wryly and spread his thick arms.

“Don’t blame me, sir, but you weren’t there.” And none of those present here, with the exception of Lord Issildor, who provided us with all possible assistance. However, Lord Issildor held the rearguard and cast spells from behind a protective barrier, while I fought with King Lothar on the front line, in the thick of it. And I know how orcs behave when they are serious. They dig holes, dig stakes, kill hundreds of people. The stench from them stands for three leagues in the area, and for the same distance the ground is saturated with blood, so that it even softens and the carts get stuck in it. And what do we see from all this now at Sorrowful Pass? Any of this? No? Well, I say: there is no need to panic. This is just a detachment of some deserters who got lost in the foothills.

– A detachment of deserters that destroyed three of our outposts? – asked Bryce.

Lord Ursus looked him up and down with a look that Bryce knew all too well. That's exactly how Clyde and Raynare looked at him when they said, "Grow up first, puppy."

“We should have left more people there.” And be more selective,” the marshal muttered. – Here I agree with you, my prince. But you also understand that with western direction Orcs haven't attacked us for several hundred years. Our positions there are quite weak. Therefore, even a small detachment of these half-beasts could cause trouble.

– And why did a small detachment of half-beasts need this? Don't animals think only about satisfying their animal essence? It would be enough for them to destroy a couple of farms, which are not fortified at all. But they slaughtered an entire village and destroyed it watchtowers. And by the way...” Bryce turned to the Lord Interrogator, who was looking attentively at him. “Lord Dalgos, do we know what happened first?” Attack on a village or destruction of outposts?

“It’s hard to say for sure, my prince.” But I believe that the outposts were destroyed first, since they, of course, are closer to the pass. It is unlikely that a detachment of orcs would have passed them to the settlement unnoticed.

“Or,” Lord Framer frowned, “they could have passed by and taken over the village to lure out the guards.” After all, what exactly are these Western outposts of ours? Several ancient wooden towers with not very good review. Their primary task is not to repel the enemy on their own, but to send a signal that will be noticed from outposts along the Rokamir line. But for some reason they didn’t do this...

– Have you decided that you can handle it yourself? – suggested the Lord Mage. – If only a couple of dozen orcs really came, this is possible.

“Yes, although it’s very stupid,” said Bryce. “Orcs haven’t been seen in those parts for five hundred years.” Even if only one orc appeared there, the guards should have immediately given the signal and only then tried to stop them. Lord Ursus, was such a signal received on the Rokamir line?

The marshal was silent for a while. Bryce could almost physically see how the tight convolutions of this corpulent giant were tossing and turning, trying to find the safest answer. In vain, alas.

“Actually, yes,” muttered Lord Ursus.

- What? – Yannem stood up slightly in his chair. -What did you say, Marshal?

- There was a signal! - he barked. “Only they told me about this after the messenger rode up from the pass.” The one who died immediately.

– That is, you do not have a system of chain transmission of messages in such cases, do I understand correctly? – Bryce narrowed his eyes. – If the orcs appeared at the pass at night, Erdamar should have received a message about this no later than the morning!

– Don’t teach me how to wage war, young man! - Lord Ursus thundered, jumping up from his seat. – I fought under the hand of King Lothar when you were still in diapers, and I know how and when to use the resources provided to me!

“My prince,” Yannem said quietly, and the marshal turned to him incomprehensibly:

“You forgot to add “my prince” when addressing the king’s brother. When they talked about how he pondered in diapers.

Yannem said this without a hint of a smile, but also without anger. A restrained chuckle ran through the ranks of advisers, but everything immediately died down. Lord Ursus turned purple. He turned his bulging eyes to Bryce, who sat clutching the armrests and barely containing his bubbling rage. But Jannem's sudden intercession confused him, so he remained silent.

“My prince,” the marshal said gloomily and sat down.

There was silence for some time. Yannam sat motionless, his gaze was just as motionless, and this impenetrability, like the vague threat lurking behind it, painfully reminded Bryce of his father. Strange. Of the two, Yannam always resembled Lothar even less than Bryce.

“So you think, Lord Ursus, that this is just a random attack,” the king finally said in a completely normal tone. – And that throwing all your strength at Sorrowful Pass now is unreasonable.

“It would be a fatal mistake, sir.” Our border line in the south and southwest is too long; defensive fortifications require large garrisons. If we weaken them, we will create a gap in the defense of the most dangerous direction - on the border with the southern steppe.

“It’s winter now,” said Bryce. He suddenly realized that this was very important. There was something in all this that they missed. And winter is part of this.

-What does winter have to do with it? – Ursus asked irritably.

- With everything. Firstly, they don’t fight in winter. If the southern horde or, even worse, Emperor Carlith had decided to strike Mithril, they would have done it at a different time of the year. Now there is mud in the steppe after the autumn rains, there is no pasture for either horses or orc wargs, the groves and fields are bare, and we can see the plain for many leagues ahead. In addition, in the Orc army, unlike ours, in principle there is no winter uniform. In winter, no one will attack us from the southwest.

- Will he attack from the mountains, or what? - Ursus asked fiercely, completely angry at the need to argue with the yellow-haired youth.

Bryce looked into his bloodshot eyes, almost hidden behind the fleshy folds of his eyelids, and asked:

– Is Lake Mortag frozen already?

Ursus opened his mouth. Closed. He opened it again and closed it again - well, it looked like a fat carp washed ashore.

“Yes,” after a pause, Lord Dalgos answered instead of the marshal. - I was told that it was frozen.

Everyone was silent, assessing this new news. Lake Mortag was adjacent to the Sorrowful Pass. It was not too deep, but large, the water in it remained icy at any time of the year, and in the winter it was covered with a thick layer of ice. According to legend, during the War of Sorrow, it was through Lake Mortag that most of the orcish army passed.

“That’s what they came for,” Bryce said. – We wanted to check if the lake was frozen. And everything else - a raid on a village, the destruction of outposts - is just a distraction. Perhaps they did not intend to destroy the outposts, but the guards did not have clear instructions in case of such events. They lit signal fires and, seeing that the orcs were rampaging through the village below, they did not sit still and climbed into the fray. The orcs killed them and destroyed our towers to interrupt the signal. Maybe that's why we didn't receive news of the invasion in time.

- Invasion? – the marshal asked, his voice jumping an octave. – Are you seriously talking about an invasion? From the west? In winter?! This is ridiculous!

- Precisely in winter. And this is not funny at all, Lord Ursus. This means they have special reasons to attack now. And maybe this has something to do with the circumstances of my father’s death.

An ominous silence fell at Bryce's last words. Of course, everyone present knew under what circumstances Lothar died. That his powerful magic suddenly ceased to work, like a candle blown out by the wind; the fact that it happened in such depths of the mountains, where people rarely dared to penetrate; that Lothar was killed by a troll shaman; then, finally, that the village destroyed by the orcs lay only a couple of leagues from the Smigrat gorge, where the king died... All this could be a series of simple coincidences. But it might not have been. Because it’s winter now, and even orcs don’t fight in winter. This is how it has been for centuries.

“But something has changed here and now,” Bryce thought. “Something is changing.”

– What do you think, Bryce, should be done? – Yannem asked.

This was the first time he had asked his brother's opinion as King of Mithril. The first time when, not by word, but by action, I recognized Bryce’s right to be here, in the Council chamber, and to sit in this chair, even at the far end of the table.

Bryce thought carefully about his answer.

– Conduct deep reconnaissance on the other side of the pass. If we find even the slightest sign that this attack may not be an isolated one, we will immediately begin transferring troops to the Sorrowful Pass from the Gedemir line. This is the least critical point in the southern defense and can be weakened without much risk. And, of course, we need to start restoring and strengthening Western outposts. Actually, this should have been done on the same day as soon as the report of the attack arrived.

“This is simply ridiculous,” Lord Ursus laughed picturesquely. – Transfer of troops from the Gedemir line! Do you know that...

“Lord Ursus, get up and get out.”

Seven heads turned towards Jannem as if on cue. He did not respond to any of the astonished glances addressed to him. He looked at Lord Ursus. His lower jaw began to tremble.

– Your Majesty, I understand that I am not a member of your Council. But as a royal marshal I...

“You are no longer the royal marshal, my lord.” Please stand up and get out.

- Is that so? How's that? - he repeated, looking around the Council with an indignant look, as if he was waiting for one of the people sitting here to support him, to help put down this arrogant upstart, who, through an absurd misunderstanding, became the king of Mithril. - And who is the marshal in this case now?

- My brother. Bryce, come to me and kneel.

Bryce stood up. His head was a little fuzzy: he felt half a dozen pairs of eyes on him, but it was as if he was fenced off from them by an invisible wall. Really... He walked slowly across the hall, past the Lord Councilors, and stopped in front of the throne on which his elder brother sat. Up close, it became noticeable that Yannem looked bad: unshaven, gloomy, with bruises under his eyes. He doesn't sleep well, and hasn't for a long time. But nevertheless, now he was smiling. Without rising from the throne, he extended both hands to Bryce and said:

- Swear. Swear allegiance to me. You haven't paid homage to your new king yet.

Indeed, he didn’t bring it. Somehow there was no time for that. They had never been alone or really spoken since the day of the coronation. And now Yannam told Bryce everything he wanted and could say with this act. Bring me homage and I will make you a royal marshal, give you the army you have always dreamed of. Stand behind me, behind my throne. Renounce forever the desire to occupy it yourself.

Bryce suddenly felt a burning sensation in his eye sockets: a sure sign of magic. Someone was frantically trying to break through the barrier that he habitually kept around his aura, as his mother had taught him a long time ago. “A vital skill for the youngest prince,” she explained. Bryce was not going to lower this barrier, but looked at it with curiosity - and saw the shadow of Viscount Egmonter, raging in attempts to attract his attention. Egmonter himself sat motionless at the table, his hands folded on his knees. He had not taken part in the discussion, and Bryce only now realized why: all this time he had been trying to contact Bryce without success. Which was impossible due to the barrier that existed around Bryce. But now he didn’t even need to lower the screen to understand the meaning of the signal. No! No! Damn you, you fool, don't you dare accept his offer! It is a trap!

End of introductory fragment.

Arwendale. Unclean Blood

Yulia Vladimirovna Ostapenko

Roman Valerievich Zlotnikov

Arvendale #6

Sometimes the fate of great empires and their rulers is decided on the very outskirts of these empires.

Roman Zlotnikov, Yulia Ostapenko

Arwendale. Unclean Blood

King Lothar, Lord of Mithril, should not have died. It was an extremely irresponsible, extremely reckless act on his part.

That day the yard went out for the last hunt on the eve of Winter Lent. These were unusually fine days at the end of autumn, the ground was not yet covered with ice, although in the mornings it was covered with frost, and Lake Mortag was already covered with a transparent crust near the shores. A bad time for hunting if you are looking for easy entertainment, but an excellent time if the hunter wants to challenge his prey. And King Lothar was known as just such a hunter, so the last days of the hunting season were his favorite time. And the most hated time for the royal court, which he mercilessly dragged along rocky gorges and mountain paths, getting deeper each time, because with the approach of winter, the prey went into the mountains, to its lair. And this is precisely what inflamed the king’s excitement. It was on such a hunt that he could fully show his subjects how much strength he still had.

Because only a truly strong warrior and magician would risk hunting trolls deep in the mountains on the eve of winter.

“Reckless,” thought Bryce, looking at the cloud of steam escaping from his lips as he breathed. He didn’t notice this in the city - there were too many people, high walls protected from the chilly wind from the southern plain, and the mountain range from the north. Eldamar, the capital of the kingdom of Mithril, lies in the valley, reliably sheltered on all sides from both weather and enemies, so that the real cold came there later. But here, high in the mountains, on the edge of a wide chasm diving into the thickness of the rocks, the wind freely fell from the peaks and chilled to the bones. The courtiers shivered, coughed, and muffled a muffled grumble, but, of course, no one dared to make a sound when Lothar, after a lively dialogue with the rangers, ordered them to move into a crevice that led even further into the mountains - further, higher and deeper. This chasm connected the Mithril plateau with the Rock Tooth. People never settled here, but trolls often wandered here: one of their settlements lay deep in the rocks. This barren rocky land belonged to them, not to the people - the people were impostors here and they knew it. Lothar loved to hunt in places where the prey did not need to be teased and lured out for a long time, because it wandered freely and drew strength from the mountains. Here it is easy to track down the troll and much more difficult to defeat him.

But the youngest son, Bryce, was involuntarily delighted by his father’s fearless prowess. And he also really loved watching his father do magic.

But today, it seems, an even more impressive trophy awaited King Lothar. Unique.

“This is a shaman, your majesty,” the huntsmen said after consulting among themselves.

The news caused a murmur in the ranks of the courtiers, another sour grimace on Yannem’s face, and forced Bryce to sharply straighten up in the saddle.

“Your Majesty,” the senior huntsman bowed obsequiously.

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This is not his fault, but the fact remains a fact. Bryce, the youngest of the princes of Mithril, killed two trolls with his own hands during this hunting season alone and, together with his father, participated in the drive of three more. Yannem, the king's eldest son, never killed a single troll in his entire life. And he doesn’t have the slightest chance against a shaman.

Because Yannem, Prince of Mithril, from birth was absolutely, completely devoid of the ability to magic.

- Don't worry, Ian. “I’ll cover you if anything happens,” Bryce encouraged him and smiled.

Well, except maybe Bryce himself. He's good at magic too. Very good.

And yet, it was not he, but Yannem who tried to save their father in those brief moments when there was still a chance to save him.

Everything happened quickly. Terrifyingly fast. Bryce was still very young and did not know that this is how the most important events in the lives of people and kingdoms happen - with lightning speed, when not the strongest, but the fastest win. And, of course, those on whose side the circumstances and the power of the gods are. Sometimes Light, sometimes Dark. And you never know in advance which ones will win this time.

- Bryce, no! Me myself! - he shouted. The howl of the wind almost drowned out his voice, but Bryce understood everything. And he retreated. He obeyed and retreated, and many times afterwards he asked himself what would have happened if he had acted differently.

The father met the troll shaman for the first time in many years and decided to kill him alone, in front of his respectfully watching retinue. This should have destroyed him. Vanity always destroys people, and even more likely it destroys kings.

Lothar raised a sword in front of his face, grabbed with both hands - a ritual blade that served the king as an amulet for combat spells. Instant, swift, stunningly beautiful pass... Bryce recognized it: a spell to make the earth tremble. Now the mountain will ripple, shudder and close, grinding the shaman into dust. One of the most effective, but also the most energy-consuming spells, even Lothar rarely used it. It did not simply affect a separate object or direct a clot of energy, it appealed to nature itself, to the thickness of the earth. Only anointed kings can cast such powerful spells. Bryce felt a flash of regret that he himself would never be able to create anything like that, and at the same time the thought that it was somehow petty to waste such power for a simple hunt, even on a shaman...

And while he was thinking about it, nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

The ground didn't shake. No, Bryce felt something similar to movement under his feet, but only for a moment - so faintly, as if someone wanted to scream at the top of his voice, but could only squeeze out a pathetic squeak. Bryce raised his head in confusion. Lothar was still standing in the position of the spell, Bryce saw the blade of the ritual sword vibrate, the spell worked - and... nothing happened.

And then Bryce saw a troll smile for the first time in his life. Then she often appeared to him in nightmares.

The shaman raised his huge paws, connecting the tips of his clawed fingers. He muttered something in a rasping tongue. There was no thunder, no roar, no darkness. A very simple spell. The shaman did not want to waste mana on some pathetic person. “The barrier,” Bryce thought, “the barrier will protect my father...”

But the shaman's spell pierced the barrier like a knife pierces butter. It threw King Lothar and his horse ten yards away from the troll. Down into the abyss.

- Father! - Bryce shouted.

If he had spent this moment not screaming, but weaving an air cushion and softening the fall, his father would have remained alive. But Bryce didn't do it. I just didn't have time. The shock of what he saw was too great. Because for some reason the powerful magic of King Lothar suddenly stopped working.

The next moment Bryce saw two things. The first was a crossbow bolt sticking out of the troll shaman's eye. The shaman slowly turned his head towards the shot. Bryce automatically followed his gaze and saw Yannem clutching a crossbow to his shoulder. Yannem tried. It's too late, but at least he tried.

The second thing Bryce saw was his father's dead, broken body on the rocks below.

For several endless moments no one moved. Then everyone moved and started talking at once. The huntsmen and courtiers rushed to the place where the king lay next to his crippled, but still alive, neighing horse. “Someone has to finish her off,” Bryce thought. “Finish her, make her stop.” The thought was surprisingly calm and completely meaningless. With difficulty he made his way through the crowd of courtiers to the place where his father's body had fallen. The doctor, who always accompanied Lothar on hunts, stood nearby, and from the horror on his face, Bryce realized that nothing could be done. He knelt down in front of his father and took his hand, trying to feel at least the last squeeze. “Why didn’t I make a pillow underneath? Why didn’t you soften the fall?” - he asked himself and could not find an answer. An answer that would not make him almost a traitor. Almost parricide.

The hubbub around gradually died down. Everyone already realized that Lothar was dead. And everyone forgot about the shaman. Bryce raised his head, looking for the troll, but the shaman disappeared and did not waste extra strength and mana on the insects, so arrogant that they challenged him. It seemed strange. There was something wrong and incredible about all this. Nothing that happened here can be explained by mere chance. And at the same time, there is no one to blame.

And then Bryce saw Yannem. He stood with a crossbow in his lowered hand, as if hesitant

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to approach, although everyone parted and nothing prevented Yannem from approaching his brother, kneeling down and mourning his father with him. But Yannem did not approach. He stood and looked at his dead father and kneeling brother.

“Father is dead,” said Bryce, still clutching the motionless hand of Lord Mithril. The wind died down, and the echo reflected his voice loudly over the gorge, carrying far in the deathly silence that hung.

- Yes. “Father died,” Yannem said quietly, almost casually. Without solemnity and without bitterness. Just said.

Their eyes met, and Bryce understood.

From now on they are not brothers. From now on they are enemies.

On the first day of winter, which coincided with the first day of Lent, as well as the day of the funeral of King Lothar, a royal council was held at Bergmar Castle.

This was a very special Council for a number of reasons. Firstly, he had never before gathered in Lent, unless it concerned issues of extreme importance - a rebellion of the mob or surprise attacks by orcs, which, however, rarely happened in winter. Secondly, even when meeting, the Council never decided anything. This has been the case for the last fifty years, when Mithril was ruled by King Lothar, who in the very first years of his reign took all power into his cast-iron fist and did not share it with anyone. Yes, he convened the Council for meetings; yes, he listened to the Lords Counsellors; Yes, sometimes he even diplomatically pretended to partly take them into account, but he always made decisions himself, and often they ran counter not only to the opinion of the Council, but also to common sense. This had gone on for many years, and now, faced with sudden freedom of decision, the Council risked reaching a dead end. These were people who gathered to create the appearance of activity, and not at all for activity as such.

And now they have no king. Moreover, the fact that they do not have a king is the very reason why they have gathered here.

There were six chairs at the rectangular table, but one seat was empty. The Lord Guardian died last month, and there was no time to find a replacement for him, and now there was no time for that. However, this simplified the matter rather than complicated it. The number six was considered symbolic and formally played in the interests of the monarch: if the opinions of the Lords Councilors were equally divided, the king's vote would become decisive. And now there are five of them, and in any case, the majority will decide what to do next. Which king should we give to the suddenly orphaned Mithril?

For the answer to this question was far from obvious.

- Well? – Melegil, the High Priest of the Light Gods, who bore the title of Lord Presbyter in the Council, said irritably. He was the most nervous of all and drummed his thick fingers non-stop on the armrest of the chair. – Will someone finally start? Or will we just stare at each other?

At the right hand of the Lord Presbyter sat the Lord Treasurer, Adaloso. He looked much calmer - however, anything could be hidden behind the external equanimity, for the Lord Treasurer was known as a great hypocrite and a very cautious man. In response to Melegil's attack, he frowned with concern and shook his head, clearly giving the initiative to someone else. No one was in a hurry to take advantage of the offer. Everyone was tensely silent.

Finally Framer, who bore the title of Lord Protector, stood up and slammed his gauntleted fist on the table. Unlike the Lord Treasurer, he was an extremely straightforward person.

– May the Dark Gods take it all! – he barked. – We don’t have a king! We need a king now! Is this unclear to anyone?

– This is absolutely clear and obvious, my friend. Only our further actions are not obvious,” said Dalgos, called the Lord Interrogator. His manners combined the gentleness of Adaloso and the openness of Framer. But few were deceived about him, because the Lord Interrogator was in charge of a secret office, a spy network and a torture tower. The late King Lothar singled him out from others and even sometimes listened to him, which was generally an exceptional thing. But now Lothar is dead. And a lot will inevitably change.

In response to Lord Dalgos's words, Lord Framer slammed his second fist and loomed over the Council members, leaning against the tabletop so that the table tilted in his direction.

– What’s not obvious here, Lord Dalgos? We have a crown prince. Let's crown him. Tomorrow. All.

“We have two princes,” the hitherto silent High Mage, aka Lord Mage, named Issildor, jumped up. – Two, please don’t forget!

“One and a half, if it comes to that,” said the Lord Presbyter coldly. – Or do you consider the dirty half-breed the rightful heir to the thousand-year throne of Mithril? Are you serious?

An ominous silence hung over the table. The fatal word was spoken. Half-breed. It was Brice, the second surviving son of Lothar, who was a half-breed. Born twenty years ago from the elf Iliamel, whom King Lothar, who had despised all other races other than humans all his life, for some reason fell in love with incredible passion and even made him his wife. A wife, but not a queen. Iliamel was never awarded the coronation for a number of reasons, which even Lothar did not dare to dispute. He suppressed any protests with his will, and he managed to force the High Priest to perform the wedding ceremony, but he was never able to force the Lord Presbyter to anoint Iliamel as king. When Lothar came across her in the mountains during one of his favorite hunts, she could not even explain who she was or where she came from. Because she didn't have a tongue. It was cut off, as were the pointed tips of the ears. This is how the elves brand those whom the Light Forest curses and expels.

Some said that perhaps this was why Lothar accepted Iliamel. Following centuries-old tradition Mithril, Lothar despised elves, as well as dwarves, and in general any other races except people. But Iliamel rejected her own people. An enemy's enemy can become a friend. Or maybe a mistress and wife. They also said that Iliamel simply bewitched Lothar, but few believed this, given the powerful magic the king possessed. Perhaps this is partly why he came to terms relatively easily with the fact that his new chosen one was not allowed to become queen. During the rite of anointing for the kingdom, Iliamel would gain additional magical power, and Lothar was not going to share power with anyone, even with the woman he fell in love with. His first wife, Queen Clamilla, did not have strong magical abilities and spent her entire life in the shadow of her crowned husband. So the elf Iliamel remained the king’s wife, but not the queen.

And so it was extremely difficult to clearly determine the status of her only son, Bryce.

“Maybe he’s a half-breed,” Lord Adaloso said. “But at least he has magic.” You, Lord Framer, are in charge of internal security, so you are accustomed to relying more on law and physical force than on witchcraft. But you know very well that from time immemorial the kings of Mithril have been powerful magicians. How do you imagine Prince Yannem on the throne, who is not even able to use amulets?

It was true. A cruel truth that brought a lot of suffering to the young prince. He was only two years older than Bryce - his mother, Queen Clamilla, had died giving birth to her last child, Yannem. Fortunately, because thanks to this she did not see the epidemic

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the plague that claimed her two eldest sons, Clyde and Raynar. They were strong, smart, brave young men, equally skilled in both sword and magic, very similar to their father. Clyde was officially declared heir when he turned fifteen; Raynar, in order of birth, was considered second. Prince Yannem was only third in line. No one was particularly concerned about his strange injury (for the lack of magical powers in a royal descendant was nothing more than an injury that evoked contempt and pity). It never occurred to anyone that one day Yannem might become the main contender for the throne. And when Clyde and Raynar died of the plague, one after the other, several years ago, King Lothar flatly refused to discuss the official appointment of a new heir in the Council. The mere mention of this made him furious. “I will live another fifty years and father a dozen more sons!” – he shouted furiously when someone had the audacity to raise this topic. But he did not live another fifty years. And of the sons there were only two left, it was impossible to choose between them: both candidates looked so unacceptable.

And all the Lord Advisors understood this, every one of them. That’s why they were so nervous, quarreling with each other, unable to come to a common opinion.

“My lords,” Dalgos finally said, breaking the tense silence. “One of us must say out loud the truth that we all know.” Neither Prince Yannam nor Prince Bryce are good enough to take the thousand-year throne of Mithril. But the truth is also that we have no other contenders. If we reject both, it will mean a change of dynasty, and it’s not for me to explain to you what bloody civil strife this will lead to. We are on the threshold of winter, Lent has begun, there is no need to drown Mithril in blood. We will have to choose the most worthy of the two unworthy, and although this choice is difficult, I believe that it is nevertheless obvious...

- Excellent speech, Lord Interrogator. First of all, by its frankness. It was your directness that Father always valued most in you.

The Lord Councilors turned to the doors. Prince Yannam stood at the entrance to the hall with his arms crossed over his chest. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, either in a sarcastic grin or simply out of excitement. Next to him, in exactly the same position, stood Prince Bryce. They were dressed identically - in black, having not yet had time to change their clothes after the funeral ceremony that took place that morning. And perhaps because of this, they almost seemed like twins. Both are tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired, both faintly similar to their father, but subtly reminiscent of each other. Only Bryce's features were thinner, smaller, and his ears were elongated - not as sharp as those of elves, but also too long for a human. Since childhood, he had become accustomed to being shy about them and diligently hid them under his hair, which fell to his temples. Yannem cut his hair short to appear older, although he was not very successful in this - his whole appearance breathed youth, inexperience, and uncertainty, which he unsuccessfully hid behind an arrogant smile.

However, in his words, which sounded very firmly, there was an unambiguous challenge. And the most surprising thing was that Yannem entered here hand in hand with his brother. Although they didn't look like they decided to stick together - on the contrary, they kept their distance. And at the same time they looked at the empty royal throne at the head of the table.

Neither of them made a move to occupy it.

- Your Highness. – The Lord Interrogator made a ceremonial bow. “I apologize for gathering here without your knowledge.” However, we felt that some issues were worth discussing before burdening you with them.

“You mean the question is, which of us should be king?” – Bryce asked abruptly.

He was also noticeably nervous. An attentive observer - and most of the Lord Councilors were very attentive - could notice that Bryce did not realize how similar he and Yannem looked and acted. Both are tense, but ready to fight, both have absolutely no idea what they will have to face. They know neither their friends nor their enemies. What they both knew for sure was that only one of them would become king. And the place of the other will forever remain in the shadow of the throne... and this is in the best case.

“I suppose,” sighed the Lord Presbyter, “we should vote.”

- Here's another! – the Lord Mage jumped up. “Issues of this importance cannot be decided by a simple majority vote.”

– How else would you like to solve them? A duel?

- Why not a duel?

- Right! Magical!

- Let the gods judge! What right do we have to make such a decision?

- Enough!

The last exclamation, echoing loudly under the arches of the hall, immediately cut off the excited voices of the lords. Everyone fell silent. For the first time, something reminiscent of apprehension slipped into the glances turned to Yannem. For the voice that uttered that single word that silenced the five most powerful men in Mithril sounded very much like the voice of King Lothar, who was sealed in the royal tomb today.

“My lords,” said Yannam; a vein was barely noticeable beating on his temple, revealing the effort he was taking to speak calmly. – I agree that a decision must be made. And as quickly as possible, because every hour Mithril spends without the king threatens us with blood and unrest. One of us - me or Bryce - will leave this hall, invested with royal power. And since, as I see, there is no unity between you on this, I believe that the Lord Presbyter’s proposal for a vote will be the lesser evil. Because I will not fight with my brother for the throne.

He said the last words really calmly, as if about something decided long ago, beyond doubt. The Lord Councilors looked at each other, and Bryce sent his brother a strange look.

Yannem exhaled, and his exhausted face, which bore the clear imprint of a sleepless night, brightened for the first time.

“But that doesn’t mean,” Bryce said even more quietly, but so that everyone could hear, “that I will so easily give it up to you.”

The smile on Jannem's face froze. He waited a moment, then nodded woodenly. And everyone in the hall physically felt how cold they felt - from this smile and this nod.

“Well,” Lord Issildor cleared his throat. “Then let us not delay this extremely important decision any longer.” Let's start voting. I give my vote for...

- I beg your pardon, my lords! One minute!

This new voice interrupting the Mage Lord's speech surprised everyone. Because no one knew its owner, who suddenly burst into the Council chamber. He turned out to be a fairly young man, no older than thirty in appearance - the youngest of the Lord Advisors was over fifty - nimble, dexterous and with an incredibly self-confident face. He was dressed richly and even pretentiously, not at all in the restrained Mithral fashion - this alone at first glance revealed him as a foreigner. The Lord Protector instinctively leaned forward, as if trying to protect the king from a possible threat - and everyone noticed that he stepped not towards Bryce, but towards Yannem.

-Who are you and by what right do you burst into the royal council? Who even let you in? – Lord Melegil asked angrily.

Stranger picture

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bowed.

- Oh, I humbly apologize. I rushed here so hard to catch this fateful meeting. Would you believe it, I drove three horses, one of which was a Dorsinian five-year-old, it’s terribly pathetic! And your guards let me in because of these papers. Ask.

He held out the scroll, and Lord Framer, who stood closest to the exit, took the letter and unfolded it.

“It says here that the giver of this is Viscount Egmonter of Parvus, great-nephew of Lord Beiring,” he read.

“Lord Beiring, until his untimely death, served as Lord Warden in the royal Council of Mithril,” added the one who called himself Viscount Egmonter, and smiled charmingly at everyone. – If I am correctly informed, this title has primordial status and, unless the king decides otherwise, can be passed on by inheritance.

“But the king...” began the Lord Treasurer, and the Lord Interrogator interrupted him:

“We don’t have a king at the moment.” And, for that matter, there is no quorum to legally elect him. If we make a decision with just the five of us, it can easily be challenged. And we all imagine what such disputes can lead to.

Those present looked at each other. This suddenly popping up contender for the sixth seat on the Council really came in handy. But no one knew him, and now is not the time to easily trust strangers. The Lord Councilors hesitated again. It was necessary to answer the Viscount with consent or refusal, and none of them could single-handedly make such a decision.

And then Prince Yannem spoke again:

– Viscount Egmonter, I welcome you to the land of Mithril. If you are a close relative of the noble Lord Beiring, then you are part of our people. You came at the very hour when your presence was needed, and by this alone you did us a favor. We gratefully accept your service. Unless, however, you are bound by a vassal oath to another overlord.

- Oh, no way! – Egmonter responded cheerfully. His light-hearted appearance and casual tone contrasted with the intense seriousness of the others, but partly relieved the tension buzzing in the air. – The head of my family, Duke Egmonter, swore allegiance to Emperor Carlit. But I myself am not bound by a vassal oath to anyone, since, alas, I do not yet own my own domain. Therefore, it will be a great honor for me to serve the King of Mithril, your... highness.

Yannem smiled slightly. He extended his hands, palms up. Egmonter hesitated for a moment - it is unlikely that he expected such a rapid development of events - but then he knelt and placed his hands in the hands of Prince Yannem, and then said the traditional words of the oath:

“I swear that my life, will and mana will remain in the service of the crown of Mithril, from now on until the last drop of my blood drains from my veins.”

“I accept your oath, I swear in return to protect you from your enemies and lead you into battle with the forces of Darkness, in the name of the Light Gods,” said Yannem and shook Egmonter’s hands three times, placed in his hands.

And only when he did this did everyone understand what had just happened.

Yannem raised his head and looked without a smile at the members of the Royal Council, who silently watched him take the oath of a man who had just become equal to them.

“My Lords, does anyone wish to challenge this appointment?” – Yannem asked.

Lord Dalgos's face, hitherto impenetrable, suddenly twisted into an annoyed grimace. “It was not necessary,” he said with only his lips, but Yannem did not notice this. He waited tensely for objections.

There were no objections.

“In that case, I appoint Viscount Egmonter of Parvus as Lord Guardian of the royal council.” May his service be for the benefit of Mithril.

“May his service be for the benefit of Mithril,” repeated the discordant chorus of voices.

- But let me! – the Lord Presbyter suddenly perked up. – After all, only the king can approve the candidacies of members of the Council. How...

“We have just all confirmed that we accept this appointment,” Lord Dalgos responded. - Nobody objected. Were you against it, Lord Melegil?

- N-no, in general no, but...

“If not, then you also agreed that Prince Yannem has the legal right to make such appointments.” This means that you, like the rest of us, have just recognized his right to make decisions that only a king can make.

– But we haven’t voted yet! - Lord Issildor exclaimed indignantly, and Lord Adaloso bit his lip: he already realized that they, it seemed, had just been cleverly deceived. And who? A boy... An inexperienced boy who does not know magic, whom they recently refused to consider as a serious contender for the throne.

The door slammed loudly. Everyone turned, but saw only the back of Prince Bryce, who quickly walked away.

No one, including Yannem, had time to see the expression that flashed in his eyes.

When Bryce got angry, he always ran away. It was easy as a child. No one particularly watched him: he was just the youngest of the four princes, a half-blood. A dirty half-breed, as they called him today at the Council meeting, and from this one memory Bryce clenched his teeth until they crunched. But his position was an indisputable fact, which he was only too aware of and which, in essence, he had come to terms with a long time ago. His father probably loved him - perhaps in memory of his mother, or perhaps because, of all Lothar’s sons, it was Bryce who showed the greatest talent for magic and loved to use it more than others. True, more often for pampering, but how else could he use it? During the last war with the orcs, he was barely fifteen, and he was not allowed into battle. Clyde and Raynare were still alive that summer, and Bryce still remembered how his face and ears burned as they mercilessly mocked his burning desire to join them and his father in battle. “Grow up first, puppy,” they laughed. And when the banners of the army led by the senior Mithral princes disappeared on the horizon, Yannam walked up to Bryce, squeezed his shoulder and said: “They are just smug fools. You know it yourself." And no matter how much Bryce wanted to snap back, he did not do so and did not throw Yannem’s hand off his shoulder. Because Yannem also stayed at home during that war, although he was already seventeen and his place was next to his older brothers and father. But who needs him there, on the battlefield - unable to cast spells, unable not only to use spells, but even to put up and maintain a basic protective barrier around himself? A pack of court magicians would have to run after him, protecting him like a hen would have to protect a chicken. He would only become a burden.

They were both outcasts in their own families, they both knew it, they both learned to live with it. And this has always brought them together.

But those days are gone.

When Yannem did what he did in the Council - took the oath of the newly minted Lord Guardian, approved his appointment and received no objections from anyone - Bryce did not immediately understand what exactly had happened. He reacted just as slowly in the gorge when the troll shaman's spell threw his father off the cliff. He did not consider himself slow-witted, not at all; even Clyde and Raynar did not reproach him for such a thing. It's just that Jannem always thought faster. He instantly adapted to any changes, sensitively grasped momentary circumstances and knew how to take advantage of events. And there, on

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rock, he realized before Bryce that his father’s death would change everything between them. Of course, they already understood that this day would come sooner or later, but they never discussed it out loud. After all, Lothar was still far from old, as for a royal person - anointed monarchs live a long time. And in Last year the king, finally consoled after the death of his second wife, was looking after a new wife... No, neither Bryce nor Yannem ever talked about what would happen when their father passed away. Yannem may have thought about this. But Bryce... Bryce doesn't. He only recently turned twenty years old. Living in the present was easier.

Therefore, now, when Yannem so clearly showed him where his place was, he reacted like a boy. He simply ran away - from this humiliation, from such a rapid and complete defeat, but most importantly - from his anger. Bryce felt that if he stayed, he would do or say something he would regret later. Therefore, he simply left the Council hall, almost ran down the stairs, burst into the stable, frightening the stable hands, and, rudely rejecting their services, personally bridled the horse. And a quarter of an hour later he found himself in the city - in noisy, bustling, crowded Eldamar, where no one knew his real name. Where he ceased to be both a dirty half-breed and a crown prince who had just suffered defeat.

Here in the city he was Brian, the son of one of the numerous host of court lords. And this Brian had a lot of friends in the city. They were always terribly glad to see him and get drunk with him in the trash - of course, at his expense.

Bryce was in such a hurry to get out of the palace that he forgot to change clothes, but his gloomy suit did not bother anyone in the city: many dressed in black today. It was not that King Lothar was greatly mourned, except to the extent that people always mourn a monarch, especially in the absence of an officially recognized heir. However, tradition prescribed that the entire nobility should put on mourning and wear it the longer, the more noble the family. The taverns, however, did not close: the Mithral residents were left with the opportunity to remember the deceased king, although alcoholic drinks were strictly prohibited during Lent. People gathered in taverns that evening to discuss the untimely death of the monarch, to sigh, to lament, to consider what effect the death of the king would have on trade and whether the fair would be canceled that week. However, too obvious manifestations of grief were not welcomed, as were any violent feelings in general. The people of Mithril, who built a city in the mountains a thousand years ago, and then step by step conquered vast lands from the orcs adjacent to the ridge from the south and west, were quite stern and did not waste their strength on empty lamentations.

Yet Bryce saw sadness and confusion on many faces as he drove through town that evening. He went straight to the Two Tails tavern, where he often spent his evenings. His friends gathered there, mainly from the merchant class and artisans, but several small nobles who were not allowed to the court were also among them. It was dangerous to make more well-born friends in the city - Bryce could be recognized. And that’s why he ran away from the royal castle from his worries and sorrows, so that he could become Brian for a while and in no case become Bryce. He needed this today more than ever before.

- Here comes Brian! They just remembered you,” Royce greeted him, rising to meet him from the table. Bryce nodded in a friendly manner to him and two other guys he knew - all three were members of the tanners' guild, strong, tall guys. Due to their class status, strict mourning was not prescribed for them, and they limited themselves to armbands made of black crepe.

“The king died, what does it matter,” one of them said sadly. The guy looked seriously depressed, and the other customers in the tavern seemed the same. There was a hum in the air, but it was unusually quiet for this time of day; the reckless clatter of mugs and drunken laughter could not be heard.

“Yeah, no one expected it,” Royce sighed. - Why did he die? They say they're hunting?

“On the hunt,” Bryce confirmed briefly, sitting down next to them. - A troll killed him.

“What a troll,” Royce whistled. - Hefty, you see?

- I did not see. I was not there.

– Were you at the funeral?

- No. Only the most noble members of the court are allowed to attend the burial ceremony.

- Yeah. It’s a pity that we can’t have a drink,” said one of the tanners, and the others nodded vigorously.

Bryce looked at them, feeling strange. “I’m Brian here,” he reminded himself. “I should grieve no more than any of them.”

- You can't drink. “But you can eat it,” he said abruptly. – I hate Post, darkness take it away.

A bold speech, but he was among friends, and they grinned contentedly. None of them were distinguished by excessive piety, but failure to comply with the rituals could result in expulsion from the craft guild - the guild masters were afraid to displease the priests and strictly ensured that the apprentices respected traditions. This was partly due to the proximity of the priestly class to the court and the strong position of the Lord Presbyter in the Council. Bryce knew about all this, but, of course, he was not going to share his knowledge with anyone.

- Well, it’s the first month, not the third. At least you can fish. I saw in the kitchen, the owner was gutting a pike! – Royce said and spread his arms to the sides, grinning conspiratorially.

Bryce swallowed. He really felt terrible hunger.

- So let him drag her here. I pay for everything, as usual.

- What a deal! - the artisans screamed - their despondency was blown away like the wind. Other visitors also began to glance towards the table, at which, it seemed, they had decided to have a feast, disdaining mourning. Some—but only some—looks were condemning. Bryce looked at them challengingly and their heads dropped. Still, he wore black today, which meant that he was a nobleman.

The owner appreciated the audacity of the customers and, rejoicing at the opportunity to earn money on these not very profitable days, he knocked himself off his feet, carrying plentiful, albeit lenten, dishes to the table. Bryce had just begun to pay tribute to the praised pike when another of his acquaintances appeared at the tavern - Arten, a cheese blower from the weapons shop. Having noticed Bryce at a table laden with food, he immediately rushed there - not alone, but dragging two short, but very strapping bearded men for company.

- Hey, I’m just in time, haven’t you eaten everything yet? – Arten barked joyfully, and Bryce grinned:

- Just started.

- Yes, I can see how they started, all that’s left of the pike is the head!

- Don't yell, dumbass. Fast. “Mourning,” Bryce said without a shadow of reproach, to which Arten only shrugged.

- And indeed, mourning. The king died. “Come here, guys,” he turned to the bearded men, and they somehow squeezed into the table, taking up as much space on the benches as would be enough for four.

Bryce, without looking up from the pike, peered intently at the strangers. They looked truly strange, noticeably different from everyone he had ever seen before. It was as if they had taken two stalwart heroes and hit them on the heads with a sledgehammer, flattening them and reducing them to half their height, but doubling their breadth.

“You are gnomes,” Bryce suddenly realized, and his heart thumped loudly in his chest in unison with these words.

He said this perhaps too loudly. Everyone at the table fell silent. The dwarves looked at each other and grinned in their beards

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with identical grins, and one of them replied:

- Yeah. There are gnomes. I am Tofur, and this goner is Dvain.

“He’s a goner himself,” the other responded completely calmly. “Last month, on a bet, I only managed to drink four bottles of bar-damara.” A disgrace to the entire Podgorny world.

Bryce, and not only him, looked from one to the other in amazement. Go crazy, real gnomes! He had never met creatures from races other than humans in Mithril. Not counting, of course, the remains of orcs and trolls, which were brought from the mountains and valleys as trophies. But for living, genuine gnomes to walk freely around Mithril like this - Bryce couldn’t remember anything like that in his twenty years.

- How did they let you through the gate? - he burst out.

He immediately realized that he shouldn't have asked this question. The dwarves tensed. Arten exchanged a quick glance with them, which Bryce did not like - this glance reeked of collusion for the league. What Dark forces brought two dwarves to the capital of Mithril on the day of the king's funeral?

“King Lothar is dead,” said the dwarf, who called himself Tofur, quietly. Or maybe it was Dvain, Bryce couldn’t distinguish them well.

“Yeah,” responded Royce, who was staring at the dwarves with the same bewilderment as Bryce. - And why did you decide that the Mithralians would immediately fall in love with the people of the foothills?

“Well, maybe not right away,” the dwarf admitted accommodatingly. - Maybe they won’t love you. It wouldn't hurt to check.

“Come on, Royce,” Arten intervened. – If this is the first time in your life you’ve seen a gnome, then not everyone in the capital is such a hillbilly. Dwarves and elves come to us from time to time for trade and craft matters; there is no direct prohibition on this.

- Yah! – Royce was amazed. Bryce, in truth, shared his amazement.

- Yeah. We only pay the entry fee. And a capitation tax. And a workshop fee. And the duty of unclean blood. And a hell of a lot of other duties just to get into your blessed city! – said Dwain (or was it Tofur?), and his brother (or just a comrade?) nodded in agreement.

Duty of unclean blood. Yes, Bryce heard about this. A thousand years ago, Mithril was founded by people who drove out the nomadic tribes of orcs from the foothills. But the king of the Undermountain Kingdom, who ruled the gnomes at that time, tried to challenge the people’s right to this land. Not far from the city built by people lay old dwarven mines, long abandoned - there was once a mithril vein running through this area, which gave the name to the ridge, the valley, and then the kingdom that people founded here. The vein was depleted long ago, and the dwarves left here, so the first human king Mithril did not recognize the claims of the dwarves. A war broke out - in those days the light races still fought with each other at the slightest provocation - into which the elves unwisely got involved, and on the dwarven side. Considering that by that time there were almost no valuable ores left in Mithril, there was no particular point in the war; it lasted one generation and died out with the death of the then Dwarven king. His successor succumbed to the peaceful entreaties of the Light Lady, who sought to extinguish the protracted conflict, and the gnomes left, leaving a barren mountain for people.

But even though the war ended, the enmity remained. The memory that the light races not only did not help people in the fight against the orcs, but also went against them themselves, turned out to be very strong in the Mithralians. Severe mountain climate, the lack of fertile soil, the need to conquer the foothills from the Orc hordes again and again - all this did not contribute to the development of excessive kindness in the Mithralians. “There are enemies all around, and whoever is not with us is against us” - this is the idea that many generations grew up on for a thousand years. And the gnomes and elves, for their part, did nothing to rectify the situation: they cared little about the life of people in the remote mountain kingdom. The Human Empire, which was gradually gaining more and more strength, tried to establish ties with Mithril, but the kings of Mithril were indignant at how at ease the hated gnomes and elves felt in the Empire. “He who is not with us is against us, the friend of my enemy is my enemy,” the Mithril kings stubbornly insisted, and with them the Mithril priests and magicians, for whom the closed way of existence of the kingdom was only to their advantage: a closed world is easier to manage. And although there was no direct ban on light races visiting Mithril, the townspeople stared at their representatives as a curiosity, moreover, a hostile and potentially dangerous curiosity.

So these two dwarves, who so easily came to Mithril, entered the tavern and sat down at the same table with people, are desperate guys.

“You dwarves don’t have a Winter Fast,” said Bryce. - It's true?

“True,” Tofur confirmed. – We have a different calendar, and we pay tribute to the gods in our own way.

“So you probably have some booze with you.” This, what do you call it... bar-damar?

The dwarves looked at each other. Royce, Arten and the other craftsmen gaped at Bryce. Bryce stared at the dwarves.

Tofur chuckled briefly. He took out a flat iron flask from his bag. He shook it: it bubbled seductively inside.

“Fuck you, Brian,” Royce said hesitantly. - It’s understandable, we want to drink, but after all, Lent, mourning, this and that... and there, they’re staring at us...

Bryce, without looking at him, extended his hand, and the dwarf put the flask into it. Bryce unscrewed the cap, took a sniff, and recoiled when he was hit by such an unbearable stench that it stung his eyes. The dwarves laughed again, now both of them.

- Just keep in mind, guy, that bar-damar has an unpredictable effect on you people. You might drop dead from your feet, or you might puke all over, depending on how strong your gut is.

“Now we’ll check whether it’s strong or not,” said Bryce and raised the flask to his lips.

“I drink to you, father. I don’t know which gods you went to, but may they accept you and make your path easier,” he thought and took a sip from the flask.

Tofur—or Dwain—didn't lie. Molten lead, flavored with wyvern acid and troll snot, would be a much more pleasant and invigorating drink. Bryce held his breath and, quickly putting his left hand under the table, secretly rolled up a protective lasso, protecting his insides. It seemed to him that someone's cast-iron fist was tossing and turning in his stomach. An infinite amount of time passed before the storm subsided, and Bryce, with difficulty holding back the urge to vomit, stood up courageously at the table.

Now the dwarves were staring at him with all their eyes.

- Look! – Dvain exclaimed. “Yes, I’ll be telling everyone about this until the Solstice.” I’ve never seen a man slurp bar-damar like that!

- And I don’t...

Bryce almost said: “And I’m not a person. Only half." Without thinking at all about how it could end. The vigorous dwarf swill hit his head, and in a split second Bryce became drunk as he had never been drunk in his life. An accident saved him from the stupidest self-exposure. Bryce saw a shadow fall on him, and when he turned around, standing in front of him were four... no, five men who had recently been sitting in the opposite corner of the tavern. They were all dressed in black from head to toe - complete mourning for the king, which signified noble birth. Bryce glanced at their faces: thank the gods, there were no acquaintances. Still, he pulled himself up and rose to his feet, hoping that he wasn’t swaying from side to side.

“My lords,” he greeted the five men looking at him in cold silence. - You have to come to me

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what's the matter?

“How dare you,” said one of the nobles in a measured, almost melodious voice, “how dare you, on the day of the funeral of our glorious king, sit with commoners, worse, with dirty blood, and drink with them their dirty swill, breaking the sacred Fast?”

Bryce instantly sobered up. And blossomed. He realized that there would be a fight as soon as he noticed these five - they sat quietly in the corner and did not eat anything, they were in grief, and they considered someone else’s frivolity on such a day as a personal insult. “My father died, but they are sad. Who am I after this? – thought Bryce, but did not allow this thought to take him too far. He had the right to answer these people, a much greater right than they could imagine.

And he answered them.

“Yes, my lords, the king is dead.” But now we have a new king. His name is Yannem. For the first time in a thousand years, a person who does not own magic will ascend to the throne of Mithril. And doesn't this mean that old world collapsed today, my lords? Doesn't that mean that a lot can change from this day on? Including age-old laws and prejudices. And for this, I think, it’s worth a drink!

His words had the effect of an exploding fireball. Everyone in the tavern - and Bryce deliberately said so that his voice could be heard in every corner - froze, stunned by what they heard. And it’s true: the news that the Council had recognized Jannem as monarch had not yet spread. Bryce brought it. He personally informed everyone about his loss and shame.

"Come on. Go ahead, give me a reason!” – he mentally shouted, dreaming only of breaking loose and giving vent to his accumulated rage.

The gods, Light or Dark, heard his prayer.

“If so, then this is good,” said the nobleman, dropping his words heavily. “Because it’s better to let a king incapable of magic rule us than a half-breed elf bastard who, look, would let such trash into Mithril!”

And he pointed an accusing finger at the silent dwarves.

Bryce smiled. Those who saw this smile remembered it - and remembered it for a long time later, when the ball rolled. But so far it was not a lump, but only the first, small pebble in it. A speck of dust giving birth to a storm.

Bryce raised his hands, lassoed and shot magic at the nobleman.

The hand, accusingly straightened towards the gnomes, crunched and broke like a dry branch.

The nobleman screamed shrilly and recoiled. He did not expect an attack, especially a magical one: the use of magic in drunken fights was prohibited and punished more severely than fights with weapons. The artisans immediately jumped up from the benches and rushed to the sides, some pressed themselves against the walls, some even ran out into the street, calling for the guards. The nobleman with the broken arm straightened up and looked at Bryce. In his eyes, pain and hatred mixed with distrust.

- So this is what you want? This? You, puppy...” he croaked and threw his good hand forward, sending a powerful shock wave.

Still, he must be one of the courtiers, it is strange that Bryce had not seen him before - this thought flashed through his head as he flew towards the wall, thrown back by a blow of such force that the walls of the tavern shook and plaster fell down. This was one of the reasons why magical fights were banned in the city: during such fights, things often broke and buildings collapsed. Especially when noble gentlemen got out of the royal castle to joke around.

- My lords, have mercy! - the innkeeper squealed. - Have pity on my unfortunate establishment! Guards! Stra…

Bryce, without looking, threw a mouth-sealing spell at him. The innkeeper choked on a cry mid-sentence and bulged his eyes offendedly. Bryce rose to his feet and brushed the crumbs of plaster out of his hair with the palm of his hand. And he felt a burning sensation in his eye sockets - a clear signal of an impending attack. This time he was ready and easily deflected the blow, which came not from the noble who sent the previous wave, but from one of his friends. Five nobles were advancing, and four of them were concentrating for a common blow - apparently, they were used to fighting in a bunch. Surely they had been to war, Bryce thought. We fought the orcs under my father. That’s why they conjure so harmoniously. Five for one. Daredevils.

He sighed briefly, closing his eyes so as not to see the bodily shells of his opponents that distracted him and to concentrate entirely on their auras, vaguely swaying against the black background of their drooping eyelids. One aura burned very weakly, Bryce sent a light blow at it - not even a blow, an injection, binding the enemy’s magical power and depriving him of his will. The four remaining were worse: they had already managed to intertwine into a single magical potential and were preparing to strike together. “I can’t overcome it,” Bryce thought. “Although...” What does he have to lose? Today he lost his father and the hope of becoming something more than a dirty half-breed bastard. There is nowhere to fall lower.

He absorbed all his mana into his fist and hit all four of them at once, intertwined in a dense network, ready to pounce on him.

At the last moment, he opened his eyes and managed to notice a flash of blue-white flame, like a wall coming towards the five nobles. This flame did not scorch, it was cold and prickly, like a blizzard, and its touch passed over the skin like sandpaper, however, without causing any harm to the furniture and walls. “A curse against living flesh. Why didn’t I think…” But he didn’t have time to think about anything, because this blue-white wall, which knocked down five nobles at once and completely drained their common magical charge, did not come from him.

It came from someone else who stood over Bryce’s shoulder and delivered a blow that was more powerful than Bryce’s.

“Why the hell do I always end up second!” – Bryce thought in rage and almost struck his unexpected and, most importantly, uninvited ally with a spell. And he froze when he saw who this ally was.

And he was Viscount Egmonter. A stranger who, two hours ago, burst into the royal council and, consciously or not, helped Yannem deprive Bryce of all rights to the throne.

“Hush, hush, young people,” said Egmonter, straightening his lace cuffs. The pile of dumped, swarming bodies into which his opponents had turned moaned something inaudibly in response. “You shouldn’t have gotten so angry.” Mourning after all. And Post. We should be more modest, my lords, just a little more modest... My friend, I was looking for you. Your father insists that you return to the castle immediately. What should I tell him?

Bryce's father? Oh yes. He's not Bryce. The father of a young courtier named Brian is angry that his unlucky son fled to the city to go on a spree on the day of the king's funeral. That's right...

Bryce cast a guilty glance at the innkeeper and, turning out his pockets, poured out all the gold in them onto the table. And only then did he cast a spell, restoring the poor fellow’s ability to speak.

“See you later, guys,” he said to his friends and the gnomes, who all this time stood motionless near the walls, away from the magical brawl. And he tried to smile as casually as possible, leaving the tavern after Egmonter.

The street turned out to be deserted; fortunately, the guards had not yet arrived. Bryce grabbed Egmonter by the shoulder and shook him with such force that the newly-minted Guardian Lord was shaken in place like a kitten.

“I could have dealt with them myself!” – Bryce hissed, and Egmonter answered dryly:

- Of course, my prince. And this would immediately reveal how powerful your power is. One defeated five. A little too much for a not particularly noble nobleman from the royal retinue. This would be remembered. And then they correlated

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with your very reckless speeches.

- And what?! I am no longer the king's youngest son. I'm his brother! This makes a difference!

- Yes, it changes. And you, my prince, do not yet understand how much.

Bryce stopped. He exhaled, letting the rage subside. And he looked at Viscount Egmonter. The first time I looked properly.

– Who are you, the Dark gods take you?

“It’s unlikely they’ll take me,” the Lord Guardian smiled. - They sent me to you.

Bryce's sudden departure from the Council chamber infuriated Jannem. It took him a huge, almost impossible effort to hide this fury, because six people were looking at him, whom he had just forced to recognize himself as a king, so much so that they themselves realized it only when it was already too late. Yannem would not admit this to a single living soul, but he did not plan anything like this, it was pure improvisation. And he certainly didn't have enough time to think about how his brother, whom he had basically just kicked off the throne like a puppy, would react to this.

“Grow up first, puppy,” Clyde and Raynar told Bryce. Yannem was always indignant at these rude ridicule. And just a few years passed, and he became just like them.

But did he really have a choice?

He took the throne seat at the table and, sitting on it, took the oath in turn from the five Lord Councilors, who took it without complaint, although not without hidden discontent. Yannem keenly felt this dissatisfaction in each of them - by the way they squeezed his hands during the homage ritual. The Lord Protector's handshake was powerful and firm, the Lord Interrogator's was soft and insinuating. The others shook his hands listlessly and cautiously, without the slightest sincerity. But Yannem didn't need their sincerity. He needed their oath. For a start, he is ready to be content with this.

Then it was decided that the coronation ceremony should be carried out as quickly as possible in order to quench the discontent brewing in Mithril. A country without a king is an orphan thrown to the wolves. True, coronations had never been held in Lent before, but the Lord Presbyter, as High Priest, immediately gave his permission for this slight violation of tradition. “The gods will understand,” he said, smiling at Yannem benevolently, even mercifully. And although in this smile, as in the permission itself, his sympathy for the young monarch was clearly visible, Yannem did not like this smile. She was too lenient.

“Do you also consider me a puppy and think that I need to grow up?” – he thought, and the anger caused by Bryce’s departure flared up with renewed vigor. Yannem rudely interrupted the Lord Presbyter mid-sentence and announced that the Council was over for today. The advisers, backing towards the doors, dispersed one by one.

When the door closed behind the last of them, Yannem took a deep breath and gripped the arms of the throne so hard his knuckles turned white. He looked at his hands, clutching the carved wolf heads that crowned the armrests. Just recently, his father’s hands lay on these armrests, and it seemed that it would always be like this. Yannem never thought this day would come. He knew that Lothar could not appoint Bryce as his heir, in any case, he would have delayed this until the last minute - he respected him too much. centuries-old traditions, understood too well what reaction a half-elf heir could cause among the Mithralians. But despite this, Lothar viewed Jannem in a similar capacity to an even lesser extent. Of all four children, it was Yannem who was the most unloved, the most rejected. Not only is she a cripple, she is also the murderer of her own mother. It’s not that Lothar loved Clamilla very much, but if she had not died, she could have given birth to more sons for him. Normal sons. Worthy of their father.

“And here you are in the grave, father, and here I am. And how does it feel for you now to look at me from the palaces of the Light gods? What do you think about when you see me on your throne? Do you bless or curse? I wish I knew". Yannem involuntarily raised his head up, as if he could really see his father looking at him from heaven - with approval or condemnation, who knows. Then he shook his head, with an effort forced himself to unclench his fingers, convulsively clenching the armrests, and rose to his feet.

He was terribly tired. Terrible. The night vigil at the coffin, the funeral, then the Council - this squeezed all the juice out of him. He needs to rest and forget. Immediately.

He left the Council chamber and moved along the corridors towards the exit of the palace.

But I was only able to get through to the first guarded opening. The spears of the two guards standing on either side of the door crossed in front of his face. Yannem stumbled in surprise and stared in shock at their motionless faces.

- How dare you...? – that’s all he could say.

“This is my order, your highness.” Excuse me.

Lord Framer's implacable voice made Yannem turn around sharply. The Lord Protector stood nearby, leaning slightly forward and pressing his right hand to his heart - a posture of reverence and submission, but at odds with his firm, stern gaze.

- Highness? – Yannem asked abruptly. “You misspoke, Lord Framer?”

- Not yet, my prince. You will become king, this is a settled matter, but this will happen only in a few days. However, I have taken the liberty of immediately surrounding your person with all the security measures befitting your new position.

Yannem looked closely at Framer. He was an old, stern warrior, with a scarred face, who had gone through many battles. In his youth, he shone in tournaments and retired undefeated. His father valued him highly and resolutely suppressed any intrigues directed against the Lord Protector. On one of the rare evenings of frankness, Clyde, who was then the official heir of Lothar, admitted to Yannem that when he himself became king, of all the Lord Advisors, he would leave only Framer in his original place. And he will drive the rest away. “Will you chase? Why don’t you execute me?” – Yannem thought then, but, of course, he didn’t say anything out loud. He learned early on when to hold his tongue. Rogue princes quickly learn this science.

“Lord Framer,” Yannem said, looking into the faded but still hard eyes of the old warrior. – I highly appreciate your loyalty and your zeal. But I don’t remember that my father was ever prohibited from moving within his own palace. Now this is my palace.

- Of course, my prince. But you were planning to leave him, did I understand your intentions correctly?

But Yannem did not expect insight from Framer. And I was confused - for the first time in this endless day.

-Can't I leave the castle? - he asked helplessly, and from how childish it sounded - like a small child asking his father to go to the fair - he was again overcome with anger. He raised his voice, no longer trying to contain his anger: “Do I now have to coordinate my every step with you and, with your permission, ask to go to the brothel?!”

“That’s right, my prince,” Framer said. “If you would like to visit the brothel, I will assign a detachment of bodyguards to escort you there.” But it is much preferable to bring the woman here. Any woman of your choice, my prince.

Yannem blinked. This helpful helpfulness, combined with an uncompromising prohibition, discouraged him. This was not what he

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expected from the status of the official heir to the throne.

He turned to the guards, still silently crossing their pikes, and said in a quiet, threatening voice:

- Let me through. That's an order.

The guards did not move. Yannem felt the flames flare up on his cheeks. Just don't break down. Light gods, give me strength, just don’t...

- This is an order from your king! - he shouted, and from behind him rustled:

- Not the king yet, Lord Framer is right here, your highness. And if you do this, you will never become a king.

This was said unnaturally quietly, in a hissing whisper in which the words could barely be distinguished. Yannem had not heard how Dalgos, the Lord Interrogator, had gotten so close to him. He never liked Dalgos. Sly glances, sweet smiles, a silent approach and a rare ability to speak in such a way that only one person could hear - the one to whom he was addressing, no matter how far they stood from each other. The latter, of course, was explained by the effect of magic, which the Lord Interrogator, like any noble nobleman, possessed quite well.

Now Dalgos stood at the other end of the hall, in the doorway from which Yannem had recently emerged. And he looked at his future monarch unctuously, affectionately and at the same time with a clearly readable warning. Yannem shot a scathing look at Lord Framer, which was met by the Lord Protector with the equanimity of a fortress wall into which a river pebble had been thrown.

“You are free, Lord Protector,” said Yannem and, without waiting for a return bow, he walked towards Lord Dalgos - back where he had just come, away from the doors that were now locked for him.

He apparently lost this fight. Not all fights can be won.

Accompanied by Lord Dalgos, Yannem returned to the Council Chamber. He sat down again on the throne chair, from which he had recently risen with such difficulty.

“Well,” he said dryly, looking at the Lord Interrogator. - I'm listening to you.

Lord Dalgos turned around. He made several quick passes with his hands - almost imperceptible, but Yannem watched them in powerlessness, as always, when magic was performed before his eyes. This each time painfully reminded him of what, by the will of the gods, he was forever incapable of. And the chief royal spy knew this very well.

- What are you doing? – Yannem asked, still sharply, without hiding his hostility.

“I am strengthening the security spell that protects against wiretapping,” explained the Lord Interrogator. “Now no one will hear us, except perhaps the Lord Mage - I, alas, am not strong against him.” But I suppose now he won’t learn anything here that he doesn’t know.

-You don't trust him?

- Of course no. After all, he openly supported your brother. And I support you.

“Lord Issildor swore allegiance to me, just like you.” As are all members of the Council.

“Oh, my prince,” the Lord Interrogator sighed heavily. - You are still very young. And you don’t understand how little an oath means, especially one given under duress.

– I didn’t force anyone.

- No, indirectly, but you deceived them. Very cleverly, although, in fairness, this is no longer due to your personal merit, but to a successful coincidence of circumstances. This imperial upstart, Viscount Egmonter, appeared very opportunely and confused all the cards for Issildor. If your brother’s supporters had more time... By the way, you yourself almost ruined everything when you asked if the members of the Council had any objections to your nominee. If Issildor had used his brain a little faster, things would be completely different now.

“It’s like you’re reprimanding me, Lord Dalgos.” I don’t remember appointing you to the position of my mentor.

Lord Dalgos was silent for a while, stroking his neat, bushy beard with his long fingers. Then he said:

“You chose a very appropriate word, my prince.” Someone will have to be your mentor. If you want to live to see the coronation, of course.

Yannem rose from the throne. He took a few steps away from him, towards the window, and stopped. From here only the fortress wall was visible - like the wall of a prison, he suddenly thought. In which he concluded himself voluntarily, moreover, he rushed into it with all his soul, pushing his only brother away with his elbows. The only one in the whole family who had ever been close to him. And for what?

“Do you think Bryce will try to kill me?”

“I’m absolutely sure of that,” Lord Dalgos nodded, and when Yannem shuddered, he explained: “Although he himself probably doesn’t even have anything like that in his thoughts right now.” But very quickly there will be people who will inspire him with this idea and convince him of its necessity.

- Supreme Mage?

“Him first, but also the Lord Treasurer.” And perhaps a new Lord Guardian. I don't know much about him. This young Viscount Egmonter is a rather talented magician, and recently it was reported to me that he plans to lay claim to the title of Lord Warden by primacy. But I didn't think it would happen at such a good time... too good a time.

“So I have enemies all around me,” said Yannem with a nervous laugh. “And you and Lord Framer are my only friends.”

“Also, the Lord Presbyter, in any case, he will not go against you openly, unless the scales swing in the direction of your opponent.” However, it is preferable to have several obvious opponents than to be at a loss as to who is hiding a poisoned knife under the roses.

- Yes, you are a poet, Lord Dalgos. I didn't expect them to be among the spies.

Yannem deliberately said this defiantly. He wanted to be rude, he wanted to insult. Lord Dalgos only shook his head, leaving this boyish - Yannem himself understood that it was boyish - attack without an answer.

“Sovereigns perceive the world through spies, my prince.” As you may have already seen, a ruler cannot simply leave his fortress and go to a tavern or brothel or wander the streets and listen to what the people say about him.

“My father did this sometimes.”

– Your father was a powerful magician, no offense intended. He was always protected by Esteban's barrier. And besides, the escort from the best people Framer. One day you too will take such a walk, if you wish. But not today. Not on the eve of the coronation, when it has not even been announced in the city that it is you who will inherit the crown of Mithril.

“I’m not ready,” Yannem blurted out. He didn't mean to say it out loud, didn't want to show weakness. But the full awareness of all the events and consequences of this long day fell upon him as an unbearable burden. – Dalgos, I’m not ready. You know, my father never considered me as his heir. I had never even been to a Council meeting before that day. It's been drilled into me my whole life that my place is in the shadows, mine and Bryce's... that we are nobody and will always be nobody... and now...

He fell silent, unable to express in words everything that was overwhelming him. Lord Dalgos nodded sympathetically.

“I know, my prince, I know it all.” That is why it is so important for you to immediately decide on allies and enemies. Your position is still too fragile, you cannot afford the slightest slack. They will immediately use it to destroy you.

– You yourself said that homage is an empty phrase. How can I trust you?

- You can’t, my prince. But think about this. I was the only Lord Councilor who understood your game when you appointed Egmonter to fill the vacant seat. And if I were your enemy, I would certainly use the mistake that you made,

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when asked if we had any objections. By not doing this, I allowed you to unspeakably strengthen your position in a single moment. Why would I do this if I were a supporter of Prince Bryce?

“You may not be a supporter of Bryce,” Yannem said quietly. – But this does not mean that you are necessarily my supporter. I'm just more convenient for you now than he is. A change in the royal dynasty will lead to a war, even a quick one, but a war. And on the threshold of winter, no one will want her...

Lord Dalgos looked at him for a moment. Direct, unblinking gaze. He had almost no eyelashes, and this gave his eyes something of an owl.

“I wasn’t mistaken about you,” he said finally. – I knew that I was not mistaken, but it is always nice to receive confirmation that you were right. You show promise. But they are still very inexperienced. And I will help you. If I may... sir.

"Sire." Only the crowned monarch is addressed this way. Crude flattery, a simple trick, but Yannem pretended to buy it. In the end, Dalgos is right about one thing: he needs allies, even if only temporary. And the head of the spy service is far from the worst candidate for this role.

“So,” Dalgos said after a silence that was quite long, but not so tense. – Your Majesty will allow me to give you the first advice?

- Speak.

– Now, in that corridor, you gave vent to your anger. I suspect it was only partly directed at Lord Framer - you had already suffered enough humiliation from the Lords Advisors today, and you were saddened by your brother's departure. This is understandable, but, sir, anger is the worst enemy of kings. Not a single rational decision in the history of the world was made in anger. Learn to manage your feelings. But at the same time, remember that other people will lose their temper all the time. Moreover, the very fact of your coronation will anger very, very many people. And this is a great opportunity to turn the weakness of your opponents against themselves. The angry one will always lose, even if not immediately. The calm one will always have an advantage because time will be on his side. Play on people's natural weaknesses, but forget about your own weaknesses. You are no longer allowed to have them, sire.

Yannem bit his lip. Then he sighed.

“I need to digest this,” he admitted, and Lord Dalgos bowed his head in understanding - no longer annoyingly patronizing, as before.

- Of course, sir. Now you should take some time to rest and relax. Your new Lord Guardian has disappeared somewhere, but I have already ordered a hot bath and dinner to be served in your chambers.

- In my chambers? – Yannem asked, knowing the answer in advance.

Yannem almost groaned. He didn't want to see anyone right now, he just wanted to bury his head in the pillow and pass out until the morning. But he only nodded and, dismissing the Lord Interrogator, allowed the Lord Protector to escort him to the royal chambers.

And there, in the huge apartment, where he had recently been barred from entering, a luxurious bed, a marble bath filled with rose water, dishes covered with gold lids on the table were really waiting for Jannem... and Serena.

Serena. A courtesan from Eldamar, his mistress. The same woman he had intended to go to when Lord Framer stopped him from leaving the palace. Kings do not sneak into the depraved nests of their mistresses secretly, under the cover of darkness. Kings just have to want it - and any woman will be brought to court in the blink of an eye.

“Dalgos knew about her and me,” thought Yannem. – And on purpose... Come on, go to the Dark Gods. Everything tomorrow".

“Greetings, your highness,” Serena said, smiling a charming, heart-melting smile that made Yannem forget everything in the world. She was already half undressed, only a transparent peignoir made of gauze fabric, light as a gossamer, covered her exciting nudity. Serena curtsied deeply, primly picked up her non-existent skirts, and slyness flashed in her deep blue eyes. That very slyness that Yannem loved in her even more than her smile.

He embraced Serena, picked her up in his arms and threw her onto the endless royal bed, where she had been lying this morning dead body his father.

- Eh, good-good. This is an Astarian blue from the vineyards in Parvus. Straight from the cellars of the Duke of Egmonter. Wouldn't you like it?

Bryce shook his head. He and Viscount Egmonter were sitting in a cramped room in a run-down hotel, clinging to the fortress wall. All kinds of rabble stopped here: junk traders, peasants from surrounding villages who brought goods to the market, small smugglers. There was only one separate room, so low that Bryce kept hitting the ceiling beam with his head. An empty window, without glass or even mica, was covered by a pair of crookedly nailed boards, somehow protecting it from the draft. Right under the window, a goat bleated protractedly, non-stop and very mournfully.

It was this place that Egmonter considered the most suitable for a conversation between the Mithral prince and the Lord Guardian of the royal Council. And he turned out to be absolutely right. A “tail” was trailing behind them, Bryce felt it himself. In the brave cohort of the Lord Interrogator there was not a single spy whose magical abilities could compare with those of Bryce, and he felt their presence a hundred paces away as if they were breathing down his neck. But when he tried to reset the surveillance, Egmonter gently stopped him. And he did everything himself. They reached the hotel unnoticed by anyone and just as quietly went up to the only separate room, which Egmonter immediately wrapped in a protective cocoon. The owner of the tavern, if anyone asks him, will honestly answer that the upper room was rented that evening by two elderly ladies.

Having completed his precautions, Egmonter produced a small bottle of wine and kindly offered Bryce a drink. Bryce asked himself why he trusted him. Why did he allow me to intervene in the fight with the nobles in “Two Tails”, why did he go with the Viscount now. There was absolutely nothing about this man that was conducive to trust. He had a rather attractive, energetic, but too cunning face, reminiscent of the face of a fox that had climbed into a chicken coop. And Bryce understood that the role of the chicken here, apparently, was assigned to him. Still, he was... intrigued? Perhaps yes is the most appropriate word. And what does he have to lose? After this day there is almost nothing.

But Bryce still refused wine. He had already paid tribute to his father by drinking dwarf bar-damar. There's no point in insulting the gods again.

And besides, who knows what might be added to this wine...

“I see you don’t respect religious traditions too much,” said Bryce, watching Egmonter savor the drink he praised with visible pleasure.

Egmonter looked up from the bottle, delicately wiped his lips with a handkerchief and grinned:

– I have nothing to do with the Light Gods. In essence, any sane person with a power similar to mine or yours sooner or later understands that the importance of the Light Gods is greatly exaggerated.

– So you are an adept of Darkness? Bryce asked more harshly than he intended. His hand under the table involuntarily formed a protective lasso, preparing to strike a preemptive strike.

“No,” Egmonter answered, looking at him in surprise. He either didn’t notice Bryce’s lasso, or

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I preferred to pretend that I didn’t notice. - Why do you think so?

– You yourself said that the Dark Gods sent you to me. There, in the tavern.

“Oh,” the Viscount laughed. – It was just a metaphor. So to speak, a figure of speech. In truth, I am prone to a certain amount of, um... theatricality in a number of my actions and actions. I humbly pray that my prince forgives me for this.

Bryce looked at him silently, narrowing his eyes warily. Egmonter placed the bottle of blue wine on the table with a knock and leaned forward slightly.

– You can trust me. I came here to provide you with every possible support. And not only on behalf of Egmonter.

- And from whom else? And how did you know that my father died? This happened just three days ago. How could the news get there so quickly and how did you manage to get there?

- Well, I already said that I drove three horses. And I became aware of your father’s death at the very moment it happened. You see, I have some ways of finding out about events happening in certain places.

Bryce appreciated the significance of this statement. The ability to instantly receive and transmit information is critical during wars. Finding out what is happening on the other side of the battlefield, on an abandoned front, in a weakened outpost, is an invaluable advantage. Bryce thought a lot about this, as well as about other aspects of military affairs. His father did not take him with him to the war, but no one could forbid Bryce to think about war and dream of one day leading an army of Mithralians rushing against the orc horde.

He forced himself to look away from this tempting picture and switch to other, more important issues at the moment.

– You said that someone else was ready to support me. Who exactly?

“It will depend on many things, my prince.” In particular, on your political views and aspirations. And ambition... Do you want to become a king?

The question was posed so directly that Bryce even recoiled slightly. He instantly assessed the likelihood that he was facing a skilled provocateur, and immediately decided that it didn’t matter. Yannem is well aware of what his younger brother wants. They may become enemies, but Bryce will never lie to him about her intentions. At least in memory of what happened.

“I want to,” he said abruptly. - Of course I want to! But this will not happen after today's presentation to the Council. Which, by the way, you personally contributed to.

“Involuntarily, my prince, I assure you.” It was an unfortunate set of circumstances. Nevertheless, agree that it is beneficial for you to have one more supporter on the Council. I haven’t had time to figure out the situation yet, but I’m sure that the Lord Mage is on your side, and possibly someone else. All is not lost for you, my prince. Not everyone.

“My brother will be crowned any day now.”

- Maybe. Everything is possible. But it’s not enough to wear a crown. You still need to be able to hold it on your head.

– If you are talking about rebellion, Egmonter, then I won’t agree to it. I said at the Council and am ready to repeat it a hundred times: I will not fight with my brother.

“I’m not asking you to do this,” Egmonter said softly. “But what will you say if all the people of Mithril come to you, fall at your feet and ask you to accept the crown?” What will you do then?

“Will the people of Mithril present me with a crown?” To me? Half-breed? – Bryce laughed, but immediately stopped laughing, realizing how much resentment and bitterness there was in it.

- This is your mistake, my prince. You think of yourself first and foremost as a half-breed. Which is not surprising, given the centuries-old chauvinism of your arrogant... I wanted to say, proud people. But at the present time it is much more reasonable for you to think of yourself not as a half-breed, but as a very powerful magician. Very strong. If you now throw a spell at me from the safety lasso that you keep under the table, I don’t think I’ll be able to reflect it.

Egmonter said his last words with the same charming smile. Bryce narrowed his eyes. He smiled back, though not nearly as charmingly – rather, threateningly.

“It’s good that you understand this,” he said dryly.

– I understand and appreciate your foresight. You saw me today for the first time in your life, and I’m already inciting you to rebel against your brother. It would be stupid to trust me so quickly.

– What do you expect in this case?

- Solely for your sanity, my prince. Judge for yourself. The Council of Lords actually recognized Jannem as king. However, what will ordinary people say to this? Yes, Yannem is the eldest son of Lothar and a person on both sides of his parents. But can his blood be called pure? After all, the first sign of blood purity is the ability to perform magic. And you, with your elven, supposedly dirty blood, are still marked with this sign - marked from birth and unconditionally for everyone. You are even too strong, so strong that today in the tavern I had to stop you so as not to allow you to show this strength in public. Everything has its time.

- And you think this will be enough for the people to prefer me? A half-elf mage to a person incapable of magic?

“The people always prefer what is pointed out to them competently and persistently, my prince.” We have a lot of work ahead of us.

Bryce drummed his fingers on the table.

“You definitely have a benefit,” he said. “Apart from the position of Lord Guardian, I suppose it is not so honorable for you.” You live in the Empire, after all. You are a blood relative of the Duke, the direct heir to his title. A brilliant future awaits you at the court of Emperor Carlith, if only...” Bryce stopped short. - Emperor Carlit? Did he send you to me? He's the one who's willing to offer support if I...what? Egmonter, what do you need from me?

Perhaps it was Bryce’s imagination, but for a moment he clearly saw a flicker of confusion in Egmonter’s eyes. As if Bryce was smarter than the Viscount expected. Although later, much later, recalling those fateful days, Bryce thought with a bitter smile that he had not shown himself to be smart at all. If he were smarter - or, simply put, at least a little more experienced and older - he would not have said all this out loud.

Egmonter dispelled the tense silence with a relaxed laugh.

- Well, let's be honest, your highness! I was actually authorized by Emperor Carlite. As you probably know, he has been uniting under his hand all human lands on this side of the Long Sea for many decades. And he wants Mithril to also become part of the Empire. Humans are the greatest of races, no offense to your elven ancestors. And only by uniting will they be able to resist the growing power of the orcs. Not to mention the trade, cultural, financial and other benefits for both sides.

– Carlith wants Mithril to become a province of the Empire? – this very thought outraged Bryce to the depths of his soul, but Egmonter did not give him time to lose his temper:

– Not a province, but a free kingdom in a union of equals. And before you throw a spell at me, think about this. There is no racial persecution in the Human Empire. Of course, certain prejudices exist; some people do not like gnomes and elves, but even those, as you well know, treat people without reverence. However, of all the human powers, only in Mithril are the light races treated as second-class creatures in state level. The duty of unclean blood that every dwarf or elf entering Mithril must pay is insulting at its very core. AND

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doubly insulting to you, half-blood prince. After all, in essence, according to the law, your father was obliged to pay a fee for you to his own treasury!

Bryce felt himself blush. Indeed, he himself had thought about it many times. By taking an elf as his wife, the father violated both traditions and his own laws (for it was King Lothar who introduced that very “tax on unclean blood”). And Bryce was always a living reminder of this. If Lothar forgave him for his tainted origins, it was only because he saw how strong his son was growing up as a magician.

“And you think,” said Bryce, “that by becoming king I can change the law?” Change traditions?

“If you become king, you will have to do this.” By the very fact of your accession to the throne you will demonstrate that there is no longer any difference between people and elves in Mithril. You will open the gate to the outside world, locked for many centuries with a hundred bolts. All the power, knowledge, wisdom, wealth of other peoples will flow into Mithril - everything that your ancestors so stupidly refused for hundreds of years. And this will only benefit your kingdom.

- A civil war will begin. Civil strife. Too many will oppose...

- Yes. So it will be. A lot of blood will be shed. But then a thousand years of peace will reign - a peace that your people can only dream of while they are besieged by orcs on all sides. And the plague that took the lives of your older brothers? If there had been elven healers in the city at that time with their special spells, both princes could have survived. Like many thousands of others. If you don't want to fight your brother for your own sake, then think about whether your compatriots are worth the fight. And are you worthy of being a king if you put your own interests above theirs.

Bryce stood up impulsively, pushed away his chair, stupidly hit his head on the ceiling again, took a few steps and stopped. His heart was beating strongly and loudly. Egmonter speaks the truth, Bryce could not deny this. The Mithralians' hatred of other races, fueled by the inertia of their rulers, always caused Bryce pain. Maybe because he was a half-elf himself, or maybe just because he thought it was unfair. And if there is even a grain of truth in Egmonter’s words... if there is a chance to change the age-old way of life... then, Darkness take it all, he is obliged to try.

Just to try means to betray Jannem. Or Yannem, or the people of Mithril. Tough choice.

– Do you know who my mother was? – Bryce asked, looking at the window boarded up with crooked boards.

“As far as I’ve heard, no one knows for sure,” Egmonter answered cautiously. “She was expelled from the Light Forest and...

- Not just expelled. Cursed. Her tongue and ears were cut off. Do you know why elves do this? To break the elf’s connection with the Light Forest on the physical and magical levels. An elf with cropped ears cannot hear the song of the trees. Does not hear the voices of objects created by elven craftsmen. Cannot communicate with others. Essentially, he loses his ability to perform magic. “Bryce paused, suddenly realizing that he had never talked about this with anyone. His mother told him - she wrote down her story on parchment in smooth, rounded runes. She taught her son to read elven runes on purpose to tell him about herself. “That’s why they did this to her.” She practiced dark magic. For elves there is no and cannot be a more disgusting crime.

Egmonter remained silent delicately. Bryce, without turning to him, raised his hand, clenched his fingers into a fist, unclenched and clenched again.

– Since childhood, I have had a lot of mana. Too much. More than all my brothers combined. And it became more and more. While Clyde and Raynar were taught how to develop their magical potential, I was taught how to restrain it. Lord Issildor personally worked with me, as he did with all the princes, but only once did he perform an exercise to help release mana. I don’t remember what happened then, I only know that Lord Issildor was found in the fortress moat with a broken leg, and since then other magicians of a lower rank have been working with me. Until I was nine years old, I still sometimes maimed them, then I stopped. I learned to restrain myself. Although my mother, she... She was always against it. I am against suppressing this power in myself. She told me - that is, not out loud, of course, we communicated through notes - that my existence proves the weakness of the Light Lady and the Light Forest. Proves that it is impossible to destroy magic in an elf, even by cutting off his connection with it. She will still find a way out.

Bryce turned around. Viscount Egmonter looked at him with eyes shining in the twilight, and Bryce felt something carnivorous in this gaze - not a fox looking at a chicken like that, but an orc looking at a butchered man hanging on a spit. Bryce shuddered slightly and gave himself away. The light in Egmonter's eyes immediately went out. His predatory smile became understanding and sympathetic.

“That is exactly what I am trying to tell you, my prince.” You are suppressing your powers, and this used to be reasonable. But if you give them a way out now, no one can deny that you are a worthy heir to your father. The only worthy heir.

“Father didn’t want to see me on the throne.” I know I didn't mean to. He himself loved to play with destructive power, especially when hunting - this was what ruined him in the end. But even in destruction he used only the power of Light. “I… I’m not like that,” Bryce blurted out, and he himself was afraid of what these words meant.

“Of course you’re not like that,” Egmonter said softly. – And this is one of your main advantages. You will not be the successor of King Lothar, but the initiator of a new era. Create your own name and identity. Deny your father. Brand his legacy, shine with your own light, not reflected light. Contrast the adherents of the old order with the adherents of the new, call behind you those who, like you, secretly dream of change. There is great power in this, my prince. It hangs over you like ripe fruit. Rip it off.

Bryce realized that he could no longer look him in the face, withstand this burning, dark gaze. Still, Egmonter said in earnest that he came from the Dark Gods. And this was not a figure of speech.

What Bryce said next changed his life. But he had no idea about it when the words seemed to fall from his lips.

– I was six years old. I hadn’t seen my mother for several days, I got bored and ran into her chambers without warning. And I saw that she was standing by the fireplace and preparing caramel candies. Multi-colored, tinted with flower petals. I loved these very much, and so did Yannem. I was delighted and ran up to her. And then I saw it. She added a drop of Darkness to one of the peas. Pure Darkness. I still don’t know how she did it, because the elves deprived her of her ability to magic. That's what I thought then. And now I understand that they only cut off her connection with the Forest. And, probably, this only strengthened the connection with the Darkness. My mother turned the Darkness into a deadly poison. And I filled them with caramel candies, which my brother loved so much.

There was silence for a long time. The goat under the window calmed down, drunken cries did not disturb the peace - no one in the city dared to openly revel on such a day. Viscount Egmonter was silent. Bryce turned and looked him in the face.

“I didn’t let her,” he said. – I realized that she was going to kill Yannem, and did not allow it. She cried, knelt in front of me, asking for forgiveness. She didn't want me to find out. She took care of me in her own way. I never

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I will harm Yannem, Viscount Egmonter. Neither directly nor indirectly.

Egmonter stood up, made a deep bow and, without uttering another word, left the room. Bryce followed him with his gaze, without unraveling his fingers, curled into a protective lasso. And he took a deep breath when the door finally closed.

“Never,” he repeated to himself. “But I remember what that spell looked like—poison woven from Darkness.” And if necessary... if there is a need... perhaps I can reproduce it.”

“How hard it is,” thought Yannem.

This thought did not apply to the ritual coronation robe in which he was dressed, or rather, it did, but only partially. Mithril armor, one of the few that had survived in the kingdom from those immemorial times when the mountain mines were filled with this strong ore, turned out to be too big for him, and the generous inlay with red gold and uncut diamonds added weight. He felt even more defenseless in them than if he had stood naked here, on a giant stone platform in the very heart of the capital. The arms had to be kept suspended all the time, bent at the elbows, holding the royal regalia in the palms: a sword - a symbol of military valor and a snake on a ball - a symbol of magical power. Both were also made of mithril, decorated with jewels, sparkling in the midday sun, blinding the eyes and painfully stretching numb hands.

But that’s not why it was hard for Yannem.

He stood completely alone surrounded by a huge crowd. Along the perimeter of the stone platform, woven with purple brocade, lined up an honor guard in snow-white armor - three hundred selected guards, standing as a motionless, silent wall, seemingly lifeless. For a moment, a wild confidence was born in Yannem that if you approached any of the guards and lifted the visor of a white helmet, there would be no face there - only a gaping void. He brushed aside this crazy thought and tightened his grip on the snake sitting on the mithril ball. The ball slid in Yannem's sweat-wet palm. The only thing missing now is for it to fall out.

How hard it all is.

The crowd around him, behind the palisade of men-at-arms, was solemnly silent. Peasants, and artisans, and merchants, and nobles, and those close to the court, and members of the royal Council, and Serena, and, of course, Bryce - they were all there. Yannem did not look at them, but felt with his skin their scorching gazes and tense, demanding expectation. For more than fifty years, the capital has not seen anything like this - the coronation ceremony of a new monarch, the presentation to the people of Mithril of a man who will henceforth rule them, lead them, protect them from evil. Not everyone is granted such a high right, and everyone who claims it must prove that they are worthy. So a thousand years ago, after the first big victory over the orcs, the first of the Mithril kings was elected. The three applicants went through a series of tests that revealed the best among them - Bramail, who became the founder of the royal dynasty, which has never changed since then. Because each of the descendants of the first ruler Mithril underwent the same rituals during the coronation and each proved that he was worthy.

"Every. Before me. But I won’t be able to.”

Yannem swallowed the lump in his throat. The snake on the mithril ball fidgeted treacherously in his wet palm.

The ritual has not changed for a thousand years. The applicant stands at the end of a long platform, and at the other end the High Priest of the Light Gods waits for him, holding a royal crown in his hands. Yannem had an entire platform to cross—about fifty yards of cold stone and purple brocade—and three walls stood in his way. Three magical walls, erected by the joint efforts of the best magicians of the kingdom, who worked all night to create them. The first is a wall of thorns, tightly woven, bristling with hundreds of sharp thorns. The second is a wall of stone, a gigantic slab of marble five cubits thick. The third is a wall of flame, hissing, spitting, merciless. For a thousand years, every king of Mithril, with more or less ease, destroyed these barriers, proving that magical power he has no equal, and at the end of the journey he received a crown from the hands of the High Priest as a reward for the journey he had made.

But Yannam, the son of Lothar, turned out to be the first in a long series of Mithril kings who, in principle, was not able to overcome these obstacles. And everyone knows it.

That's it, Darkness take them. Anything and everyone.

For several days the Council heatedly discussed the search for a way out. A variety of proposals were put forward: from completely canceling the ritual to replacing real magical walls with props - silk panels that the king would cut with a sword. Yannem rejected all these proposals, understanding too well how he would look in the eyes of his future subjects. Finally, he slammed his hand on the table and said, above the din of voices:

- Enough, my lords! I have to go through these walls. Real walls. How exactly I do this is your concern.

Thus, he left no choice either to the members of the Council or to himself.

And here in front of him is the first of these walls. And he should be able to.

Under the weight of a thousand eyes, Yannem raised his right hand, the one that was holding the sword. According to tradition, it was on the sword that the spell was tied to cut the wall of thorns. For several moments nothing happened, and then those who stood closest and had magical sense felt a deep vibration of mana. The wall of thorns rippled, the thorny branches bent, turned black, and fell to the ground with a crunch. The wall dissipated into dust, turning into fine blackened dust, as if it had been burned out by a stream of invisible fire.

Yannem walked where it had just risen, and the black dust crunched under his gilded plate boots.

A whisper passed through the crowd - surprised, incredulous and, it seems, admiring. Yannem held his breath. Just don’t look at them, just don’t look. He was glad that he was surrounded by a wall of motionless guards - looking into the faces of the people gathered in the square would be unbearable now. "I have to do it. I have to,” he ordered himself, stopping in front of the second wall.

This time the second relic was used - a snake on a ball. Yannem raised it high, turning the snake's head towards the barrier, and for a moment it seemed to him that the diamond eyes of the mithril amulet sparkled with an evil mockery. I know what that look seemed to say. And you know. And they will find out too, no matter how you turn it.

A trembling began again under the platform, deeper than the first time. The marble wall swelled, crackled, a crack appeared in its upper part - at first very small, but then it crawled down, rapidly branching out, like lightning striking from the sky. This lightning struck the platform at Yannem's feet, splitting the marble slab in two. Dozens of fragments rained down onto the platform with a roar, but without harming anyone - they were crushed in the air, turning into small pebbles, and the pebbles melted before they reached the ground. The second barrier also disappeared.

Yannem felt the breath of flame emanating from the third wall on his face and closed his eyes. It seemed to him that the fire had scorched his eyebrows, but he did not dare to check.

A bit more. It's almost all over.

He raised both hands in front of a curtain of fire spitting flames. For a second he saw his father’s face in the bizarre play of fire - distorted with such terrible anger that Yannem almost recoiled. But he didn’t give up.

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A clot of mana, stronger than the previous two at once, burst out of both relics and hit the wall of fire, sucking the air out of it, causing the flames to suffocate and die. The fiery veil began to shrink, shrink, gathered into a clot, then into a ball, then into a spot - and melted without a trace.

Now Yannem saw Melegil - the High Priest, the Lord Presbyter, who with a solemn smile handed him the royal crown. Just come up and bow your head. Just take it. Yannem stepped forward and...

- This is a lie!

A piercing scream tore through the crowd. There was a ringing silence for a moment, and then Yannem slowly turned his head towards where the scream came from. But he saw nothing behind the dense wall of guards surrounding him. Still motionless.

- Deception! How can you not see?! It wasn't he who did the magic! They helped him!

There was a murmur. Yannem cast a quick glance at the Lord Presbyter, who still stood with a frozen smile and a crown in his raised hands. In the confused look of the High Priest there was not the slightest clue as to what to do now. “Damn it, I told you it would happen like this,” thought Yannem.

He actually told them. It was obvious. There will be too many people at the coronation who have magic, or at least can sense it. And even if most of them remain silent, someone will certainly open their filthy mouth. Will someone say out loud what everyone thought in bewilderment during the ritual: Prince Yannem’s inability to perform magic is well known, so how can he pass tests that require remarkable magical power?

The idea belonged to Lord Dalgos. By itself.

“We’ll carve a niche in the ritual platform,” he suggested when all other ideas dried up or were rejected by Yannem. “And we’ll immure five of the strongest magicians there.” No, better than a dozen. What do you think, Lord Issildor, is a dozen enough?

“It’s hard to say,” mumbled the Lord Mage, amazed by this blasphemous proposal to such an extent that he did not even dare to resist it. – Probably... should be enough...

– To be sure, let these be the same magicians who erect ritual barriers. They will build them, and they will also take them down. The king will only need to walk along the platform, making the necessary movements - raising the regalia in the right places. We will rehearse so that everything looks natural. Of course, the niche in the platform will need to be well protected, an illusion created so that no one from the crowd discovers the real source of magic. The most powerful magicians should be removed from the ceremony in advance under some plausible pretext.

– Will this work? – Yannem asked, turning to the Lord Mage. -What do you think, my lord?

“It better work,” his tone said clearly. Lord Issildor swallowed nervously. It was amazing how seriously they took the threat that Yannem could pose to them, even though he had not even become an anointed monarch yet. Yannem caught Lord Dalgos's approving glance, and this gave him strength.

Although deep down he knew it wouldn't work. And worse than that, some of the lords probably also guessed about it. And yet they did not stop him. They wanted him to know this shame. They knew that it was easy and quick way destroy it without getting your own hands dirty.

And now they seem to have won.

The accusing cry from the crowd was like a fiery arrow piercing a haystack. The flame did not flare up immediately. At first, only murmurs were heard, then separate shouts were heard - angry, protesting, shocked.

- Deceiver!

- They want to deceive us!

“He couldn't do it himself.” Everybody knows!

- Deceiver! A king without magic!

And finally - the last straw that overflowed the common cup:

- Unclean blood!

And the crowd exploded.

The wall of guards swayed as one living being. But she resisted - this time. Yannem heard the shrill command shouted by Lord Framer: “Close ranks! Spears to shields!”, and the line moved again as one man, grinning with spears aimed at the crowd. Screams of pain were heard. Someone tried to escape, but the crowd was too dense and a stampede immediately began. The middle pressed on the back ranks, trying to break out, the back ranks mixed, pressing on the front and pressing them to the line of men-at-arms, impaling people on spears, like orcs impaling their helpless victims on a spit. To the right of Yannem, a tall fountain of blood splashed out, sprinkling the snow-white armor of the guards with a scattering of scarlet spots. Several splashes hit Yannem's face. He mechanically licked his lips - and was horrified when he felt a metallic taste on them.

“This is how I begin my reign. Deceit and blood,” he thought, and suddenly he painfully wanted to return to the rocky gorge of Smigrat, at that moment when his father began to climb up the crevice. Go back and stop him. Stop at any cost. If only I didn’t have to go through all this now...

But that was a moment of weakness. It passed quickly.

- Lord Presbyter! – Yannem shouted abruptly.

The High Priest, looking around in confusion among the raging and screaming crowd, seemed to have completely fallen out of reality. His hands, clutching the crown, dropped and trembled slightly. Yannem hardly suppressed the impulse to grab the old man by the chest and shake him - only his hands were full of damned regalia.

“Crown me,” he hissed. - Immediately! Otherwise you will pay me dearly.

The High Priest was not distinguished by particular wisdom or fortitude. In fact, he was rather weak-willed - King Lothar selected for the Council mainly people whom he could put pressure on without unnecessary hassle. Instinctively, Jannem used the same tactics that his father followed: when you are backed into a corner, go ahead - and die or win. Lothar never failed with this tactic, neither in politics nor in war. Almost never.

And she didn’t let Jannem down that terrible day either.

“In the name of the Light Gods...” the High Priest began stammering.

- Louder! - Yannem demanded, and Lord Melegil shouted in a rattling old voice:

– In the name of the Light Gods, I greet you, Yannem, at the end of the path, and may the end of the old become the beginning of a new one! May Mithril rejoice, for the new king is embarking on a bright path!

And he placed the crown, which the kings of Mithril had worn for a thousand years, on the head of Yannem.

“Shine,” Yannem ordered. - Well, shine! Why are you…” Venets was silent. Lowered onto the forehead of the new king, who had just undergone the ritual, it was always filled with a clear, even glow - according to legend, the pure magic of Light was sealed in the diamonds that adorned the crown. But now the crown remained dead. He did not glow, did not show the blessing of the Light Gods to the new king. It was just a headdress made of mithril and gold, very heavy.

Very heavy.

- Your Majesty! Here! Faster! – Lord Framer’s thunderous voice tore Yannem out of his sickening despair and forced him to throw up his crown-laden head. The white men-at-arms pushed back the crowd and created a corridor leading from the platform towards the castle. There stood a palanquin, shrouded in a powerful magical barrier. Just to get to him.

Yannem descended from the platform, trying his best not to fuss too much, although the situation clearly did not lend itself to special majesty. The offensive shouts subsided, now only cries of fear and pain burst from the crowd: the guards

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headed by the Lord Protector knew her business. Yannem walked forward, trying to look only straight ahead. But the trials of this day were not over for him, although he did not suspect it.

There were only a few steps left to the palanquin when some ragamuffin, dirty, with insanely bulging eyes, in an unknown way broke through the barrier. He lived only a second after that, but that second was enough for him to take a mouthful of stinking saliva and spit it deliciously right in the face of the newly anointed king.

The next moment his head flew off his shoulders, hit the pavement and rolled, bouncing like a ball, spraying the stones with gushing blood.

Yannem looked up. And he met his brother's gaze.

“Sorry,” Bryce said, breathing heavily. - I did not make it in time.

Yannem didn’t notice how he got there. How did Framer allow this to happen? And why? The Lord Protector is in cahoots with Bryce, or trusts him, or was negligent and overlooked - all these assumptions, equally bad, rushed through Yannem’s head like a whirlwind, but he immediately dismissed them. Not now. Bryce stood before him, his sword and formal robes stained with blood, as if he had just returned from the battlefield. In essence, this is how it is. The first battle of King Yannem has just taken place. The first of many. I just wish I knew whether he won or lost.

He wiped the spittle from his face with the back of his hand, completely forgetting about the uncut diamonds dotting his gauntlet. One of the stones scratched his cheek. More blood. So much blood today.

- Were you the one shouting? – Yannem asked.

The question came out on its own. Who was the first to accuse the king of lying? Yannem didn't recognize the voice, but it could have been Bryce. To be fair, of all the living people, he should have shouted it.

Bryce's eyes went wide. Yannem saw so much in them: amazement, indignation, resentment... pity. Bryce is truly sorry for his brother, it’s a pity that everything turned out this way. And behind all this, in the darkest depths, something else was visible. A weak, barely noticeable spark of dull satisfaction. No, of course, it wasn’t Bryce who screamed about deception. But he's glad someone else did it for him. And although Bryce had just killed the scoundrel who had disgraced the king, part of him could not help but rejoice at this disgrace.

Yannem knew his younger brother well. Knew and loved. They read each other like an open book. It's always been like this.

“He is dangerous for me,” thought Yannem. - Deadly. He is my enemy. Remember, Yannem: this is your worst enemy. Bryce, not those who screamed in the crowd and spat in your face.”

“Walk me to the palace,” he asked, and Bryce, nodding with relief, readily stood at his brother’s right hand.

Together they walked towards the palanquin.

All this was regularly reported to Bryce by Viscount Egmonter, who, for lack of anything better, became his eyes and ears in the Council.

And then the gods, Light or Dark, showed the sign that everyone was waiting for.

A hacked, bleeding messenger with his scalp half torn off came galloping from the west. He fell from his horse at the suspension bridge of Bergmar Castle, but before he gave up the ghost, he managed to wheeze, clinging to the guard who ran up to him:

– Orcs... at the pass... beyond Mortag...

The situation was different with the Western

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direction. There lay the lands of the horde, separated from Mithril by a pass called the Sorrowful. About five hundred years ago, a great battle took place there, ending the largest and bloodiest orc raid in the history of Mithril. The Western orcs led a sedentary lifestyle and rarely went on raids, but in that terrible summer they decided to push people back from the Mithril ridge, taking possession of this land. No one knew why they needed this - certainly not for the sake of the depleted dwarven mines and hardly for the sake of human cities and towns, which the orcs would have razed to the ground anyway. Mithril counted, in addition to the capital, two dozen cities, clustered around the mountain range, and from these cities villages and farmsteads flowed down into the valley. There, peasants worked on pastures and rare plots of fertile land, feeding cities and castles, which, in turn, supplied them with craft goods and, most importantly, protected them from external enemies. The Western orcs had nothing to take here - except perhaps slaves, whom they, like their fellow tribesmen from the land of Glykhnyg, raised and fattened for slaughter. In a word, history has not preserved the reasons for that raid, but the horror and chaos that it sowed are reflected in the name of Sorrowful Pass. No one settled there even now, because there was too great a chance, while walking along the mountain paths, to inadvertently hear the crunch of old bones underfoot.

Young King Yannem, however, was determined to pass the test with flying colors.

The orcs actually visited here, destroyed the outposts, ravaged the village and left, as if it was just a little pleasure trip for them.

And he showed up uninvited to the Council meeting.

“Your Highness,” Lord Dalgos said separately. “I didn’t know that today you would honor the Council with your presence.”

Bryce calmly crossed his arms and answered, looking not at the Lord Treasurer, but at his brother:

– Judging by the rumors that reach me, an extra head for the Council now certainly won’t hurt. For I am not the only one here who cannot boast of significant experience in strategic planning.

“Lord Guardian, order another chair to be placed at the table.”

Everyone exhaled. If the storm is coming, at least for now it has passed. Bryce pulled up the chair brought for him and moved closer to the table - albeit at the far end, but this is a big step forward compared to the fact that until now he was not even allowed on the threshold. And only then did he notice that, besides him and the king, there were not six people at the Council table today, but seven.

“Your Majesty,” said Lord Ursus, the royal marshal, rising from his chair, “now that we have listened to the report of the Lord Inquiry, allow me to express my own thoughts.”

“Speak,” Yannem nodded.

“But how can you put a person at the head of an army who is not able to think for himself? – Bryce was surprised when they talked about it. - How

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will he be able to strategize and defeat his enemies? “It’s not difficult,” Yannem chuckled. – Remember: this tradition was introduced two hundred years after the Tribulation War. Since then, the most dangerous thing we have faced are small raids by the southwestern horde against well-fortified outposts. There, you don’t need a lot of intelligence to win.”

– Not very reasonable? – asked Lord Melegil. – A village completely cut out and traces of a cannibal orgy – isn’t that enough for you?

“Are you hinting at me, Lord Marshal?”

But King Lothar skillfully selected his companions: Lord Ursus really lacked the ingenuity for such conclusions. So he just grinned wryly and spread his thick arms.

– A detachment of deserters that destroyed three of our outposts? – asked Bryce.

Lord Ursus looked him up and down with a look that Bryce knew all too well. That's exactly how Clyde and Raynare looked at him when they said, "Grow up first, puppy."

“We should have left more people there.” And be more selective,” the marshal muttered. – Here I agree with you, my prince. But you also understand that the orcs have not attacked us from the western direction for several hundred years. Our positions there are quite weak. Therefore, even a small detachment of these half-beasts could cause trouble.

– And why did a small detachment of half-beasts need this? Don't animals think only about satisfying their animal essence? It would be enough for them to destroy a couple of farms, which are not fortified at all. But they massacred an entire village and destroyed the watchtowers. And by the way...” Bryce turned to the Lord Interrogator, who was looking attentively at him. “Lord Dalgos, do we know what happened first?” Attack on a village or destruction of outposts?

“Or,” Lord Framer frowned, “they could have passed by and taken over the village to lure out the guards.” After all, what exactly are these Western outposts of ours? Several ancient wooden towers with not very good visibility. Their primary task is not to repel the enemy on their own, but to send a signal that will be noticed from outposts along the Rokamir line. But for some reason they didn’t do this...

– Have you decided that you can handle it yourself? – suggested the Lord Mage. – If only a couple of dozen orcs really came, this is possible.

The marshal was silent for a while. Bryce could almost physically see how the tight convolutions of this corpulent giant were tossing and turning, trying to find the safest answer. In vain, alas.

“Actually, yes,” muttered Lord Ursus.

- What? – Yannem stood up slightly in his chair. -What did you say, Marshal?

- There was a signal! - he barked. “Only they told me about this after the messenger rode up from the pass.” The one who died immediately.

“My prince,” Yannem said quietly, and the marshal turned to him incomprehensibly:

“You forgot to add “my prince” when addressing the king’s brother. When they talked about how he pondered in diapers.

“My prince,” the marshal said gloomily and sat down.

“So you think, Lord Ursus, that this is just a random attack,”

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The king finally spoke in a completely normal tone. – And that throwing all your strength at Sorrowful Pass now is unreasonable.

“It’s winter now,” said Bryce. He suddenly realized that this was very important. There was something in all this that they missed. And winter is part of this.

-What does winter have to do with it? – Ursus asked irritably.

- Will he attack from the mountains, or what? - Ursus asked fiercely, completely angry at the need to argue with the yellow-haired youth.

Bryce looked into his bloodshot eyes, almost hidden behind the fleshy folds of his eyelids, and asked:

– Is Lake Mortag frozen already?

Ursus opened his mouth. Closed. He opened it again and closed it again - well, it looked like a fat carp washed ashore.

“Yes,” after a pause, Lord Dalgos answered instead of the marshal. - I was told that it was frozen.

- Invasion? – the marshal asked, his voice jumping an octave. – Are you seriously talking about an invasion? From the west? In winter?! This is ridiculous!

- Precisely in winter. And this is not funny at all, Lord Ursus. This means they have special reasons to attack now. And maybe this has something to do with the circumstances of my father’s death.

“But something has changed here and now,” Bryce thought. “Something is changing.”

– What do you think, Bryce, should be done? – Yannem asked.

Bryce thought carefully about his answer.

“This is simply ridiculous,” Lord Ursus laughed picturesquely. – Transfer of troops from the Gedemir line! Do you know that...

“Lord Ursus, get up and get out.”

Seven heads turned towards Jannem as if on cue. He did not respond to any of the astonished glances addressed to him. He looked at Lord Ursus. His lower jaw began to tremble.

– Your Majesty, I understand that I am not a member of your Council. But as a royal marshal I...

“You are no longer the royal marshal, my lord.” Please stand up and get out.

- My brother. Bryce, come to me and kneel.

- Swear. Swear allegiance to me. You haven't paid homage to your new king yet.

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